


listening through the air shaft

by ms_scarlet



Series: oh no, don't close your eyes [2]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Bread Dough As A Means Of Therapy, But Still More Than Annie Has For Dean, Drinking, Everyone Has A Similar Level Of Respect For Beth And Rio's Proximal Intelligence, F/M, Krystal Goes By Diane Because That's Her Name Dammit, POV Outsider, Post-Season/Series 03, Sisters, Swearing, Thanksgiving, Which Is To Say Not Much At All, because while the show may not adhere to linear time by god this fic is gonna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24489421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_scarlet/pseuds/ms_scarlet
Summary: #3: 5 outsider POVs on beth & rio getting together somewhere down the line from 3x11. would love rhea, mick, annie, ruby, and dean. not all people have to come around and be supportive, but writer can pick who feels what.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: oh no, don't close your eyes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769053
Comments: 186
Kudos: 586
Collections: Good Girls Prompt-a-thon 2020





	1. Rhea

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a companion/sequel to _[now use both hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24228286)_ but if you haven't read that one, this one should still make sense
> 
> \--
> 
> title from both hands by ani difranco

"Here comes trouble," Rhea cries, already laughing as she opens the door, and Marcus comes barreling into her legs. 

Chris huffs, following not far behind him, Marcus' overnight bag in one hand and what had better be the booze she'd requested he bring from his bar in the other. "You don't know the half of it."

"Yeah?" Rhea asks Marcus. "You being bad?"

Marcus has chocolate smeared all the way across his face, and when he grins up at her, Rhea feels her heart light up and turn over. It always does when presented with his bright, beautiful smile, this perfect boy they made. Happy and carefree in a way the two of them sure as shit haven't been in more years than she can remember, definitely more years than Marcus has been around. Hell, maybe more than they've ever been. 

Rhea glances over, and Chris is looking at him, a fond warmth she knows is the echo of her own in his eyes, chocolate smeared across his chin and neck and the collar of his jacket. She bites back a laugh, imagining the state of his car and knowing how he is about things like that, but the way he raises an eyebrow when he looks over at her tells her she didn't do so good of a job keeping all of the amusement off her face. 

"I had a cupcake," Marcus announces, recapturing Rhea's attention. 

"That right? Where'd you get a cupcake?"

"Mick got me one!"

"Oh yeah? You and Mick went out for cupcakes?"

"Yeah! We went to the bakery by the bathtub store!"

"What bathtub store?" Rhea asks, looking to Chris, suspicion bleeding through her confusion when he rocks his jaw the way he does when he knows some shit's about to go down.

"The one where Jane's mommy works," Marcus answers, blithely unaware of the grenade he's dropping.

"You saw Jane's mommy?" Rhea asks, careful to keep her voice bright as everything in her turns to ice. 

Her eyes snap to Chris, and he's gone blank. But the thing about knowing someone for more than half of their damn life is you learn how to read them, whether they want you to or not, and she knows this flavor of blank means I don't want to talk about it. 

Not that Rhea's going to let that stop her. She's generally pretty good at respecting his boundaries—most of which lie far beyond the point where she doesn't want to know, anyway—but the long-standing deal is that he keeps his shit off her doorstep. 

"No, I had to wait outside," Marcus says, a thundercloud passing over his little face—clearly, there'd been a discussion about it—before lighting back up as he remembers his prize. "That's why I got a cupcake!"

"Why don't you go get cleaned up, baby," she says, ruffling Marcus' hair and gently pointing him in the direction of the bathroom. "Then you can help Diane in the kitchen, she doesn't know where everything is yet."

"But I do!" Marcus announces proudly, puffing his chest out. 

"That's right, that's why you're in charge, go wash up."

He runs off, skidding a little around the corner and bumping into the wall, making Rhea laugh, and she hears Chris do the same. 

She's so mad at him she could spit, but she's still profoundly grateful that they were able to come out of their disastrous attempt at a romantic relationship as something sort of like partners, it'd be so much harder if they weren't. She isn't sure how much is because they'd been friends since before all that, back when they were two stupid-ass teenagers daring each other to be bad—he'd won, resoundingly—and how much is because they're both stubborn as hell and determined to make it work for Marcus, but it does work. 

Mostly. Even when he breaks the rules and brings all the blood-soaked baggage, she could never get him to give up right to her door. 

"Jane's mommy, huh?" she asks, turning back to Chris and crossing her arms, already trying to ward off the bullshit coming her way.

"Don't start."

"Didn't realize there was something to start, thought you were ending that."

"Circumstances change."

That's the thing though; Rhea might stay far the hell away from Chris' business these days, but that wasn't always the case, and she'd never seen circumstances go all the way bad like they did with _her_ and then come back from it. 

Rhea eyes him up and down, but he's making a show of setting Marcus's bag down just so and not looking at her, clearly trying to shut down this line of conversation.

Which is too fucking bad for him; if he wanted a say in this, he should've left their son out of it.

"They must've changed a hell of a lot for you to bring Marcus' round that bitch."

A part of her flinches at that, at the venom and bitterness in her own tone. It's the part that remembers play dates and wine nights and shared _looks_ when one of the playground moms said something completely ridiculous. It's the part that remembers the warmth, the generosity, and Marcus' blinding smile at that first soccer practice, running around in his new cleats. 

It's the part that remembers the weird thread of underlying sadness Rhea would catch glimpses of at the most unexpected moments, so deep and raw, it made her own heart ache. She never knew what was behind it until all of a sudden she couldn't unknow it, even if this part of her wishes she could.

"Had to pick some shit up, you know how it goes," he says, straightening up to face her, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I didn't bring him in."

"I don't give a shit, bringing him around at all is too much," she snaps, immediately furious in the way only he can make her. 

Had to pick some shit up, her ass. Sure, it always comes back to his money, but it's more than that. He's got to test the limits, prove that he can do exactly what he wants. She could barely swallow his master of the universe bullshit back when they were together, she's sure as hell not putting up with it now. 

"She shouldn't have ever known about him in the fucking first place. What are you _doing,_ Chris?"

"I got it handled, Rhe."

"Yeah? How's that?" she asks, cocking her head. "'Cos from here, it seems like you're letting her run circles around you."

"You don't know what you're talkin' 'bout," he bites out, his temper flaring behind narrowed eyes, visible in his locked jaw. 

"What's she got on you?" Rhea presses. It's been long enough that there's no way it can still be a fake pregnancy—she still can't believe she waded into the middle of that one—and she figures it had to be something good if that—if B—if _she's_ still in the picture.

Chris looks away for a moment, then back, running a hand over the back of his head, and Rhea realizes in a flash that he's not giving her an answer because he doesn't have one. 

"You stupid motherfucker," she says, awed at the depth of the bullshit he's swimming in. "She nearly _killed_ you." 

"You think I don't know that?" Frustration—at himself, at her, Rhea doesn't know—makes his voice rough. 

She remembers that day he came back, how closely he'd watched Marcus, how he kept touching him, how it was like he couldn't bear to be more than a few feet away. She remembers how unusually still he was, not only like moving too much hurt him, but like he was holding so much in, it had shorted him out. The absence of the vibrating electricity that was so much a part of him made the hair stand up on the back of Rhea's neck. 

She remembers that night, when she'd made him stay, made him tell her what happened after Marcus went to bed. The way he'd come all the way back to life and erupted when they'd put together who Rhea's new mom friend was. 

Rhea's never been afraid of Chris—not directly, not even knowing more than she wants to about how far he'll go—and she hadn't been that night, she knows he'd never hurt her. But watching him process everything she'd told him about meeting _her_ , their friendship, the money, she'd been very, very afraid of what he might go out and do. She'd had to tug on every single string she could reach to get him to stay, to sleep on it, to think through his next move.

She'd been picking the ceramic shards that were all that remained of her patio planters out of the backyard for weeks.

"I don't know what you know when it comes to her," Rhea shoots back. "But it sure as hell seems like it's not shit."

"This ain't really your business, now is it?"

"You made it my business when you brought _my son_ into it," she hisses.

It's like the fight goes out of him all at once, leaving behind a fathomless weariness, a weight settling over him that makes Rhea's one bones ache in sympathy at the sight. It scares her, how tired he looks, how tired he's looked since he came back. It's the kind of tired she's terrified will make him careless, that leads to mistakes. In his line of work, a mistake and a death sentence are often the same thing. 

Rhea's long since accepted that Marcus will lose Chris for good one day, but she can't stand the idea of it being to a bullet he damn well should've seen coming.

"Be careful, okay?" she says, softening her tone in the face of his exhaustion. 

"Always am, ma," he says with a wry smile, and she gives him a matching one. They both know that's a lie.

“And don’t you dare bring our son ‘round her again,” she snaps, not willing to budge on that point, the rest of her anger cooling enough that she can swallow it back—for now—when he nods.

"Where's Mick?" she asks, extending an olive branch.

"On his way, he had to make a stop."

"Right, well, grab the booze and come meet Diane." She starts toward the kitchen. "I met her at yoga, she's sweet. Pretty sure she doesn't have some fucked up ulterior motive, but let me know if she's tried to kill you, yeah?"

She looks over her shoulder when she says it, playful but not entirely. Chris is rolling his eyes like he knows she's got a point and he doesn't like it, and Rhea decides to cut him a break for now. 

She still has a whole dinner to drive it home.

—————

Later that night, after Marcus has gone down for the count and they've moved outside to the patio, lighting a fire in the pit to keep away the early spring chill nipping around the edges of the night air, Rhea figures it's as good a time as any to make her next move. 

"So, Mick," she starts. "It's been a while. How're things?"

"Things are good," he says, calm as ever. 

She’s never met anyone as contained, as unflappable as Mick. He’s been the counterweight to Chris’ flair since before she’d met either one of them, since they were all of waist high. She wonders if he’s said his own piece about the situation or if he’s saving up.

"How's business?" She asks, fishing for an angle, biting back a grin when she more or less feels Chris' attention hone in on her at her tone, a warning creasing his brow.

"Oooh, what do you do?" Diane breaks in, sweetly curious and either entirely unaware of or completely ignoring the rising tension.

"Sales." 

"Neat!" She chirps, leaving it at that. 

One of the things Rhea likes so much about Diane is how smart she is and how she plays on people's expectations, letting them think she's not. Rhea's always been attracted to that kind of effortless craftiness, much to her detriment.

Rhea drapes an arm over her shoulders, and she reaches up, tangling their fingers together. 

"You still seein' that guy you wouldn't bring 'round?" Rhea asks. 

"Nah, that went south."

"Shit, man, I didn't know that." Chris looks at him, surprised. "You ain't said nothin'."

Mick snorts. "You've been a little busy."

"Did it have anything to do with him never wanting to come to dinner?" Rhea asks.

"Probably related," he says with a shrug. "It ain't a thing, too much drama down that road, anyway."

"Oh, one of those?" Rhea looks to Chris. "You're probably better off without him. When it's not right, it's not right."

Chris purses his lips and stares back at her, unimpressed. 

"You know, Marcus is dealing with his first heartbreak," she continues, undeterred.

"Oh, no!" Diane looks up at her, eyes wide. "He's such a cutie, how could anyone break his heart?"

Rhea honestly can't tell how much she's picked up on Rhea being on a mission, and how much she's genuinely concerned with Marcus' well-being, but either way, she gives Diane's hand a squeeze, making the other woman smile. 

"It's a real Romeo and Juliet type thing," Rhea tells her. "He met her at the park, and they hit it off."

"Oh! That's so cute!"

"Yeah, a love story for the ages. Too bad it never would've worked."

"Why?"

"They're too different. Different school districts, different lives." Rhea looks back over at Chris, and he's pissed now, but too fucking bad for him. "Plus, his mom's a nightmare, total Karen at best."

Mick chokes on his beer.

"Even if it did work out and they stayed friends, she'd only cause problems for Marcus as he got older. Any trouble they got in, the mom's the type that would never believe it had anything to do with her precious angel, you know?" Rhea takes a sip of her wine, watching Chris across the rim. "She'd put it all on him."

"What'd you do about it?" Diane asks, her eyes darting back and forth between Rhea and Chris.

"I don't take him to that park anymore. It's probably for the best too." 

The fire crackles and pops between them. Chris looks off into the yard, jaw ticking furiously but not saying anything. Mick smiles faintly, setting down his empty beer and pulling out his vape pen, and Rhea settles back, satisfied for now. 

"Anybody want to fill me in on what I missed?" Diane asks, looking around at the three of them, the faintest edge running through the question, and Rhea winces. She's being rude, and she knows it, she let her temper get the best of her.

"I—" 

"Rhea doesn't like my business partner," Chris interrupts, looking back at her and drumming his fingers on his knees.

"Oh, I get that," Diane says with a knowing nod. "My business partner's wife doesn't like me either."

"Yeah? What's her problem?" Rhea asks, tugging on Diane's hand, abruptly, surprisingly defensive on her behalf.

"Probably because I'm a dancer?" Diane shrugs, but the movement lacks her usual bouncy energy, and Rhea can see it weighs on her. "I don't blame her, it's weird knowing your husband's looking at naked women all night, but she doesn't have anything to worry about. I would never—and even if I would, her husband, he like, won't even look. It's so sweet."

"Smart," Mick speaks up when she trails off. "Keepin' it straight business."

Chris's head whips around, jaw dropping at the betrayal, and Rhea can't help grinning at the assist.

"What?" Mick asks, sedately hitting his vape and making them wait until he exhales. "It simplifies things."

 _"Oh,"_ Diane says, putting the pieces together. "It's one of those, huh?"

"It's nothing," Chris assures her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and flashing her that bright, smooth smile that's the most bullshit one in his whole arsenal. "I got it under control."

Rhea snorts into her wine. 

"Be nice," Diane says, patting her hand. 

"Yeah, Rhe," Chris grins, obnoxious as all hell. "Be nice."

"He's obviously going through something," Diane continues, a mischievous smile playing around the edges of her mouth. "He needs sympathy and understanding."

Chris sits back with a groan, scrubbing a hand over his face while Rhea laughs and tugs Diane closer. 

"I'd have more sympathy if he weren't being so deliberately stupid about the whole thing," Rhea tells her before turning back. "You gotta cut her all the way out, Chris. It's the only way."

Mick raises his vape in a toast but doesn't say anything.

"It's not that easy though," Diane protests, voice softening. "When you connect with someone, really connect, that doesn't go away just because you want it to."

Chris drops his hand, startled, staring at Diane like she was some kind of fluffy forest critter that had gone fanged and venomous with no warning.

Rhea hates that she has a point. She thinks of her own lingering affection for B— _her._ A scabbed over, poorly healed wound still oozing betrayal every which way that she can't entirely stop picking at, keeping it fresh. But the thing is, that doesn't matter. She has a son to protect, which means she sets her own feelings aside and does what has to be done.

That was something she and Chris were never able to see eye to eye on, the wedge that kept coming between them and ultimately drove them apart. He'll do what he'll do, always believing he'll come out on top. Granted, it's a belief bolstered by the fact that he pulls it off more often than not, but one of them has to be the pragmatist, has to plan for the times it doesn't work out. 

And if it's not going to be him, then it'll have to be her.

—————

So Rhea goes back to the park. 

She doesn't even really know why, she's not expecting it to work, but at least this way she knows she tried. 

It's a crisp, chilly Saturday in March, not the most likely of days to take your kids to the park, but Rhea gets lucky, and _she's_ there. She's sitting off to the side by herself, the way she does, with that thousand-yard stare Rhea knows she gets when she doesn't have anyone to perform for. 

Marcus goes tearing across the grass the second Rhea lets him out of the car, bee-lining straight for Jane by the monkey bars.

Rhea knows the exact moment _she_ sees him because she jolts upright, looking around, her face sharpening, coming alive as she searches.

But Rhea also sees the way she sags a little when she sees Rhea, not Chris, heading her way, and it does something complicated to Rhea's chest. She doesn't know how to feel about _her_ wanting to see him after everything she's done to him. 

"I didn't think you'd ever come back here," she says when Rhea approaches, refreshingly direct for once.

"Wasn't planning on it," Rhea says, dropping down onto the other side of the bench, less because she wants to sit with her and more because she doesn't want to look at her. 

"Why are you here?" She has the nerve to ask like she doesn't know.

"Heard you and Chris were back in business together," Rhea says, watching Marcus spin Jane around.

She doesn't say anything, and when Rhea looks over, she's watching her warily, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"I don't know what happened the last time, and I don't care. I only care about how it almost ended."

"I—"

"I don't want to hear it," Rhea cuts her off, turning to face her full-on, letting her see how serious she is. 

She may have gotten out of that life, but there was a time she ran with Chris and Mick and all of them, and she knows how to be a knife when she needs to be. She lets that show in her face as she stares Beth fucking Boland down.

And Beth, to her credit, doesn’t waver. She faces Rhea head-on, letting her own steel glint in the weak, overcast daylight.

"I'm just here to tell you if you're the reason my kid ends up without a father? You're gonna fucking wish I _let_ him kill you when he first came back."

At that, Beth's face goes pale—paler anyway, she was already white as a sheet, but now she's downright gray. Rhea doesn't know if it's because she's hearing her or if it's because she already had some shady shit up her sleeve, but she's willing to bet it was both. 

Rhea leans forward and plucks one of the orange slices neatly lined up in a Tupperware on the bench and pops it in her mouth. 

"Good talk," she says, before standing up and dusting herself off. 

She strides off towards the benches on the other side of the park without looking back. Marcus and Jane are chasing each other around the swingset now, squealing and flinging sand at each other. He's so happy, so bright, so beautiful, her boy. 

They can stay a bit longer, Rhea decides. Let him enjoy the game as long as possible. He doesn't need to know this is the last time. 


	2. Mick

Mick doesn't know how to feel about Mrs. Boland, to be honest. 

At first, it was kind of refreshing, the way she tripped Rio up, not many people surprise him like that. Mick didn't personally see the appeal of her little I'm Queen Of The Suburban Bitches speech, but she'd clearly got Rio's gears turning, and that's why he's the boss, not Mick. He sees opportunity where other people don't, and he's fuckin' good at it. Mick's got no qualms with the hierarchy, he knows where he stands. 

Then it was kind of funny, watching Rio get so tangled up in her. Ever since Mick's known Rio, he's been the one running circles around everyone else. Even at nine, he'd flash a bright smile and spit some honey, and everyone would be dancing to his tune. He'd have them thinking it was their idea and shit, but all the while he's twirling them around, making their heads spin and leading them right where he wants them. 

But with Mrs. Boland, Rio could go round and round all day long and only move her a few feet closer to what he was angling for before she'd plant her feet and toss her hair, refusing to budge right up until she'd stomp off in the opposite direction. 

It stopped being funny, though, when Mick watched that video of her putting three slugs in him.

It's not like that was the first time Mick had seen Rio get shot. Sure, the guy had an almost uncanny sense of what was opportunity and what was trouble, but it's impossible to get to the top without getting into a few mishaps along the way. Especially when the climb's being made by someone with an insuppressible urge to test the limits. Mick's had to get him patched up a few times, but it's always been scrapes and grazes, a broken rib here, a knife gash there, never three shots to the chest, and then left to bleed out. 

Mick will never forget how it felt, watching the live stream of that video, seeing the moment it all went wrong, and knowing he was too far away to get there in time to do anything other than watch them carry out his almost brother's corpse while cops tore the place apart.

So, yeah, to say he's not Mrs. Boland's biggest fan is probably underselling it.

On the other hand, he gets it. She was in a bad spot, she made a call, same as he would do in her position. Sure, Mick would've gone for that fucking snake, Turner, but he can't totally blame a lady who's spent her whole life on the right side of the law for balking. And it's not like the plan had been all that thought out to begin with, not that Mick'd ever tell Rio that. Mick didn't know what exactly had gone done between the two of them, but Rio'd gone stupid over it for a good minute. 

And that, really, was Mick's problem with Mrs. Boland in a nutshell. She can be as bitchy and uptight as she pleases, that's her business, but she gave Rio a dangerous kind of tunnel vision none of them can afford.

For a while, it seemed like it was all going to work out the way it should. Rio came back, madder than a hornet in a shaken up sack, all fiery temper, and icy vengeance, and Mick thought finally, we'll be rid of her and things will go back to normal. He even got it when Rio didn't kill her right away, she probably wasn't pregnant, but the chance she might've been was a good enough reason to hold off. And after that, she was the printer, waiting until they could take over on their own made sense. Gotta make sure you've got all your ducks in a row before burning shit down, Mick didn't have to be the brains behind the operation to know that was just smart business.

But then they had their own plates, could figure out the press, it was only a matter of time until they sorted the color formula and Rio, he just...stopped talking about killing her. Put her back on the payroll like it wasn't a thing. Acted like things were back to normal. Or whatever fucked up version of normal the two of them had between them.

Sure, it wasn't like before, when Rio'd watched her like she was some kind of mystery, a secret, a puzzle box with a dazzling reward hidden inside, he just needed to figure out how to unlock it. Now he watched her like she was a trap, a live grenade, a snake coiled to spring, which she was, that's how he should've been dealing with her the whole time. 

At the end of the day, though, she was still fuckin' breathing, and Mick was afraid he knew why, and it was only going to lead to trouble.

Not only that, but it was fucking exhausting being caught between the two of them.

Take the drops, for example. Rio's been doing them solo for weeks, meeting her at the hot tub shop after-hours, going over the books to make sure she wasn't fuckin' robbing them— _again_ —and picking up the money she was washing. The first time he'd gone over there, Mick had followed him to the car like usual, ready to come along and keep an eye on her like Rio'd asked him to. Instead, Rio'd stopped him, told him he had it covered, that he wasn't gonna strangle her or some shit. Like that was why Mick had been coming along, as opposed to making sure the both of them didn't pull some stupid shit like they had an established pattern of doing whenever they got within five feet of each other. 

So, Mick stayed behind with his phone out, braced and ready for a call that—he doesn't even know what he was expecting, but he was ready for it. What he wasn't ready for was Rio to come back with a fucking bounce in his step and that fuckin' smile he used to get around her: some fucked up combination of delighted and proud and, worst of all, _interested._ 'Cos that was the thing about Rio, love, hate, indifference—Mick's seen him absorb or brush all of those off, but fascination? That's what gets its hooks in him. 

It seemed to go okay for a few weeks, as okay as anything with that woman can go anyway. She doesn't seem to be thievin', and the two of them have some kind of game going that's turned on a light in Rio's eyes that Mick is absolutely uninterested in knowing the particulars of. 

But just like everything between them, it goes alright right up until it goes all wrong, and Rio comes storming back, money bag in hand—black duffle, Mick notes with a trace of disappointment. Truth be told, he'd been getting a kick out of the outlandishly over the top bags she'd been digging up thinkin' it would bother them. Maybe it bothered Rio, God knew he was particular as fuck about shit like that, but Mick was perfectly fine carrying around some bedazzled, leopard print monstrosity if it came accompanied by half a mil in clean cash. 

And just like that, the drops are Mick's job, the Boland lady's his problem again. Which would be fine, except something clearly happened and Rio won't say what, so Mick's walking in blind. It's not like that's a dealbreaker or anything, he'd done far sketchier things, but if Rio's pissed off, that means she'll probably be and yeah okay, so maybe Mick sits in his car and hits his vape a few extra times before going in. He's earned it.

He lets himself into the showroom, startled by the jingle of a bell in the door. The whole store's dark save the office at the far end, giving it a sort of horror movie, come-get-it vibe, and Mick rolls his eyes at the theatrics. 

When he walks into the office, Mrs. Boland is waiting, perched on the edge of the desk, leaned back with her legs crossed in some kind of button-up dress that she's got partially unbuttoned from the top and bottom. Mick didn't need her to squeak and startle so hard she nearly falls over for him to know he wasn't the intended audience of this presentation. 

In situations like these, he's found it's best to say nothing, so he waits silently while Mrs. Boland collects herself. She takes a minute or two to straighten out her dress, doing up the buttons and brushing herself off. She's doing everything she can to not look at him, but he can still see she's blushing redder than a fire engine. 

"Here," she says, finally, when she's calmed herself down, stiff and awkward as she hands him the ledger. 

Mick only nods and drops down into one of the visitor's chairs, flipping to the right page and pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket. 

"You cannot be serious," she says when she realizes he's about to sit there and transcribe the numbers. "Can't you take a picture or something?"

He doesn't bother responding to that one. Either she'll figure out why that's a dumb idea—there's a reason she's manually recording the figures, he'd think she'd have puzzled that one through already—or she won't, it's not his job to hold her hand. 

It's not Rio's either, but that ship's already sailed right off the edge of the map and been shat out the other side of a dragon. 

She fusses around for a minute before flopping down in her desk chair, fidgeting and sighing, but Mick pays her no mind. The sooner he can get this done, the sooner he can extract himself. 

The silence is thick and awkward, and Mick can practically feel her vibrating with the force of her pent up questions, but he'll give her credit, she keeps them in. He didn't think she had that kind of self-control, to be honest. He hasn't really seen any evidence of it. Self-preservation? Sure. But not control. 

Eventually, he snaps the book shut and slides it over to her. He looks at her, and she blinks back, her mouth opening and closing as she cycles through the things she wants to say. 

"It's by the door," she lands on eventually, deflating a little as she gives up. 

Mick nods and stands. He makes it all the way over to the bag before she snaps. 

"Is he—is everything okay?"

"Don't you worry about it," he says, knowing the dismissal will piss her off, and sure enough, she goes blotchy as hell immediately, mouth twisting like she's sucking on something sour. 

"You have a good night Mrs. Boland," he says with a salute and gets the fuck out of there. 

—————

Mick drops the bag on Rio's desk, but Rio doesn't look up, just keeps tapping away at his laptop.

"All of it there?" he asks, which is insulting, honestly, the idea that Mick would be idly standing by if it wasn't. 

"Yep," is all Mick says, letting it slide because he knows Rio's only saying it to keep from saying anything else.

He waits, but Rio doesn't say anything else, doesn't stop typing, still doesn't look up.

"Weirdest thing," Mick says, watching him closely, trying to figure out what he's in the middle of even though he's pretty sure he's got a decent idea. "When I came in, she was sitting on the desk in a half unbuttoned dress. You wouldn't know anything 'bout that would you?"

Rio's hands freeze, a smug, satisfied smile flashing across his face quick as lightning, and Mick sighs heavily. 

"Be smart, man."

Rio looks up at that, a warning in his eyes. "I ain't over there, am I?"

Mick only stares back, impassive. That shit might work on some of the riff-raff they've got running 'round here, but they go back too far for it. Besides, the both of them know the situation between Rio and the Boland lady's open-ended, and Mick's only doing him the courtesy of pretending it's not because they're friends.

Rio looks away first, which is confirmation in and of itself that Mick's right and he knows it.

_Fuck._

—————

The next time Mick drops by, Mrs. Boland isn't spread out on the desk, so there's that. She's still all done up, this time in some form-fitting number that shows off her curves. Mick thinks about telling her she doesn't have to dress up for him to ruffle her feathers, but ultimately decides it isn't worth the trouble. A part of him's apparently still hoping if he ignores this little game they're playing, it'll eventually go away.

He doesn't miss the way her face falls, though, when she sees it's Mick coming through the door. Something heavy lands in his gut along with it. He doesn't know if it's dread or pity or some uncomfortable combination of both that twists him up, but he doesn't like it.

They go through the same song and dance, her handing off the book, him pulling out his notebook. This time, instead of hemming and hawing and flipping her hair, Mrs. Boland pulls a Tupperware out of her bag and marches off, and when she comes back, the smell of something hot and homecooked in a way that reminds him of his mother precedes her.

Mick glances over when she drops down in the chair and digs into something creamy with noodles and vegetables and chunks of some kind of meat. She catches him looking and pauses, fork halfway to her mouth.

"Want some?" she asks, all blue-eyed innocence, like Mick would ever take her up on anything she's got on offer—hot tub notwithstanding, he's not going to turn down an opportunity like that.

Still, smells good, though. 

He doesn't bother replying and goes back to the numbers, letting the silence fall between them like a brick. 

"You don't like me, do you?" She asks after one, maybe five, maybe twenty minutes.

"I saw the video," he says, finishing up the last column. 

When he looks up at her, she's gone pale and is pushing her dinner away like she don't have the stomach for it anymore. He'll give her credit, she knows exactly what he's talking about and doesn't do either of them the discourtesy of pretending she doesn't.

They don't say anything after that because what else is there to say. Mick doesn't even bother with a salute, he just grabs the bag by the door and leaves.

—————

After that, it's like she doesn't know what to expect, but she wants to be prepared no matter what, which Mick puts down to a mom thing. Rhe's like that, always carting around some bigass bag that still seems to defy physics with all the shit she pulls out of it. No matter the situation, she's got something on hand to take care of it.

Mrs. Boland keeps dressing up like one day it's not going to be Mick, but she also starts bringing an extra Tupperware of whatever's for dinner like she knows the skirts and heels are wishful thinking. 

The first time she nudges an extra container across the desk while he's going over the books, he stares for a good full minute before looking up at her. There's a blush steadily creeping its way across her face at his incredulity, but she doesn't retract the offer. 

Mick doesn't eat it with her—they aren't fucking friends or anything like that—but he takes it with him. It's a pragmatic thing. He likes food, and she's a good cook. When he finally caves and tries the first thing she made, some kind of pot roast, it's like he's a kid again, sitting down at the table for Sunday family dinner, which doesn't even make sense because while his mom's a woman of many talents, cooking was not one of them. Mrs. B, though? She's got skills.

So, yeah, he eats what she makes him. Unlike some people he knows, he sees no reason to fuck himself over out of spite.

Which isn't to say he's not about to have _some_ fun with it. He brings a Tupperware in with him one night when he drops the bag off.

"My dinner," Mick says, snatching it out of Rio's reach when the boss can't stop himself from reaching for it, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Rio scowls. "You gonna start braiding each other's hair or some shit?"

"Maybe," Mick says with a shrug, stroking his beard. "Bet she does a mean fishtail."

—————

"No, Dean, I—"

Mrs. B only glances at Mick when he walks in, two spots of color riding high on her cheeks, exasperation writ large in the tense set of her mouth, before turning her back on him, like not looking at him will keep him from hearing her half of the argument she's having with her husband.

"Dean, I had plans—"

Mick looks her up and down, sliding into his usual chair and grabbing the book, curious despite himself. She does look more done up than usual, it's more intentional, less of the oh this old thing vibe she ain't been fooling anyone with. 

"It's your week—" She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Trouble in paradise?" Mick asks when she hangs up the phone.

"Shut up," she snaps, scrolling through her phone. Mick isn't offended, it lacks the bite it might've had a few weeks ago, and he can tell the remaining venom isn't directed at him anyway, but whatever shit her dumbass husband's serving up.

"Hey, I have to cancel," she says when the call connects. He assumes it's her sister from the muffled squawk Mick can hear all the way over at the desk. She seems like the yeller. "Dean forgot what night we switch, he's got a thing."

There's some more muffled squawking, and Mick sits back, giving up any pretense of not openly listening. She looks over at him and glares when she sees him looking, but her usual energy and spite are missing. 

"I know, I know," she says into the phone, turning away again. "I didn't want to give him any ammo going into a custody—I _know._ It's not like birthdays mean anything after 21, it's not a big deal. We'll do something next week."

Mick's attention catches on custody; he wonders if Rio knows they're getting divorced, nearly groans out loud at the idea of being the one to tell him. It's relevant to the business arrangement, but there's no way in hell it's not going to come out sounding like some personal bullshit he'd rather peel his own fingernails off than wade into. 

"I have to go," Mrs. Boland says, glancing back over at him. "He's here...no, Mick. I will. Love you too."

She hangs up and drops down into her chair, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. Mick takes advantage of the moment to study her, not entirely sure why he feels compelled to do it. She looks tired, really tired. The kind of tired that visibly weighs so heavy, he can feel it in his own bones, like he's somehow absorbed it just by being in her proximity. 

For a second, he forgets who she is and what she's done and feels bad for her.

"Can we hurry this up?" She asks, snapping him out of it. "As you probably picked up, I have somewhere I need to be."

And just like that, the moment's over. He goes back to his work, painstakingly copying the numbers, and she sighs, sitting back in her chair. He's fully prepared to take as much time as he needs, maybe even a little extra because she's being a bitch about it when she goes digging around in her bag under the desk and slides a packed Tupperware over to him.

He blinks at it and then up at her.

"What?" She asks, looking a little embarrassed at the scrutiny. "I didn't know if you' d—I just...I eat better when I'm cooking for other people. It's Chicken Kiev."

She says that, but she doesn't pull a container out for herself, and it's not like Mick didn't just listen to her cancel her dinner plans, so he doesn't know who she thinks she's fooling. He shifts his weight, tapping his pen against his notebook, not sure what to do with the idea that she cooked and brought him dinner anyway. 

In the end, he doesn't do anything with it, he quickly finishes up and snaps the ledger shut, sliding it back across the desk to her. When he collects the bag, he pauses on his way out, turning back around and there's something...sad about the sight of her, sitting alone behind that big desk. Her whole self's somehow giving the impression she's slumped over even though her back's straight as ever.

He has absolutely no reason to feel bad for her, approximately a million reasons in the opposite direction, but he still gets a twinge.

"Happy birthday," he tells her, and her head whips around to look at him, just as shocked that he said it as he is.

"Don't overthink it," he says, leaving before he can say anything stupider. 

—————

"You know the Boland's are gettin' divorced?" Mick asks, dropping the bag on Rio's desk. 

The heat in the glare Rio levels at him in response could melt glass. "What's it to me?"

Mick just looks at him. 

"She keepin' him in line?" Rio asks, tugging the bag towards him.

"Seems like," Mick says, tossing his notebook on the desk. "Numbers are steady."

"Then what the fuck do I care?"

Mick rolls his eyes. Like Rio hasn't been noticeably and increasingly short-tempered over the last few weeks. A trend that, curiously enough, aligns with when Mick took over the pickups. 

"Get the fuck out of here, man," Rio snaps with all the bite that had been missing from Mrs. B's tone earlier.

He doesn't need to tell Mick twice, he's got some Chicken Kiev to dig into so of the two of them, it's pretty clear who's coming out ahead.

—————

When it's time for the next pick up, Mick swings by a little earlier, stopping by the bakery across the street right before they close. He doesn't let himself think about what he's doing, just makes his purchase, and carries it across the street, all the while cursing himself for being a fool, for getting involved.

He doesn't say anything when he drops the cupcake on the desk in front of her, doesn't give her a chance to say anything either. He grabs the ledger, not even wanting to look at her, but even with his head down, he can see that she goes perfectly still. 

The room's quiet for a long time before he hears her sniffle a little, and he'd bet his last dollar Mrs. B's beating herself for letting that much out, so he pretends he didn't hear nothing. When he finally flicks a glance at her, she's looking up at the ceiling blinking furiously, blush blazing like a forest fire.

Neither one of them says anything, and Mick speeds through the numbers as fast as he can while still double-checking his work. He is _not_ going to make a mistake over this shit. He's just about done copying down the last entry when she breaks the silence again.

"Is he...is he ever going to come back?" 

Mick's honestly fucking flabbergasted that she let herself ask at all, let alone with such open yearning in her voice. He guesses it's the cupcake that did it, that ultimately crumbled some fundamental barrier between the two of them. That or she's finally cracked, lost whatever's left of her mind.

He looks up at her, and her blush has somehow cranked up another notch—he had no idea people could get that red—but she doesn't look away, just sets her jaw and stares him down. Mick's shocked to discover he respects it, her, the way she's digging her heels in and not backing down even though she's clearly embarrassed as all hell.

"Yeah," Mick says after a long moment, already cursing himself for the bullshit he's wading into. 

He doesn't even know why the hell he says it. Maybe because she keeps feeding him. Maybe it's because he knows damn well it's true and Rio isn't going to stay away that much longer. Maybe it's because he started to fucking like her at some point along all of this, something he cannot fucking believe but also can't deny, no matter how much he wants to. 

She's trouble, no doubt about that. She's got this kind of live wire energy about her, electric and unstable that Mick finds absolutely exhausting. But he also recognizes it as a cousin to Rio's, and apparently, he can't fight the fondness familiarity breeds. 

Whatever the reason, he's clearly telling her what she wants to hear, and she just, _fuck_. She lights up. 

She tries to hide it, but it's too bright, and Mick's shocked, to be entirely honest. He knew there was something there, some kind of spark, but it isn't until this moment that he realized there were actually _feelings_ attached to it on her end.

_Fuck._

He doesn't want to be in the middle of this, desperately needs to wash his hands of it. He can't see a version where it ends well, but he also doesn't see what else he can do besides stand by. Trying to stop it is like trying to stop the tide, and Mick's never been one for hopeless causes. 

So, that night, when he goes to drop the cash off, he tells Rio's he's fucking out, he's done with it.

"What the fuck, man?" Rio asks.

"The two of you are giving me a fuckin' ulcer," Mick tells him, and it's probably not even a lie.

"Fine," Rio snaps, glaring at him like he can't believe Mick's turning on him. But, the thing is, Mick knows him, knows how to read him. And he can see underneath the disbelief he paints on for show, he's lighting the fuck up too because Mick's handing him an opportunity gift-wrapped in insubordination and it's the excuse he needed to let himself go.

_Fuck._

—————

The next time Mick sees Rio, he knows. He may not know how to feel about Mrs. B, but whatever Rio feels about her is enough that anything he might have to say about it doesn't matter at all.


	3. Annie

It's wild how you can know someone since literal birth, develop a pretty solid picture of who they are as a person—and a super boring person, no less—only to discover they had this whole other, like, _completely_ different, _much_ cooler person living inside them the _entire time._

All this is to say, Annie doesn't know who the fuck Beth is anymore, but aside from the like, nearly terminal lack of self-preservation instinct that seems to have come along with her dropping her shell, like some kind of late-blooming snail, she's pretty cool. Can snails really be said to bloom? Unimportant. The point is, the new Beth? _Awesome._

Take, for example, the way she is absolutely beating the shit out of some bread dough like it's the face of some dude who's wronged her. Badass. 

Actually, on second thought, maybe a little too badass. Kind of verging on unhinged, really. 

Annie looks around the kitchen with fresh eyes, taking in the eleven other types of bread that had already been rising when she'd arrived. Normally Annie wouldn't blink an eye at Beth baking up a storm, but now that she's thinking about it, it's summer so it's not like it's for a school bake sale or something and even if it were, eleven seems like a lot. Especially since Beth's got what looks like the ingredients for at least five more loaves lined up on the edge of the island—not counting the one she's currently pulverizing. 

She tries to sneakily study Beth's face without her noticing—wasted effort, Beth is clearly somewhere entirely else. She realizes the white pallor Annie had put down to a dusting of flour is actually Beth's skin, and she's got some impressively purple bags under her eyes. 

"Hey, are you okay?" Annie's not even sure why she asks, it's not like Beth'll tell her.

"I'm fine, why?" 

"Uh, because unless that dough has done you deeply wrong, there's clearly some sort of pent up something at play here."

"I'm fine!" Beth insists, not letting up her rhythm, if anything she doubles down on the force, her face twisting like she's got something building up inside her that needs a release. 

"Oh! I know!" Annie snaps her fingers as inspiration strikes. "We need to get you laid!"

Beth rolls her eyes and keeps kneading, somehow managing to go even harder than she already was.

Once Annie’s had the thought, it makes so much sense she doesn’t see how it can be anything else. The divorce has been dragging on for months, so it's not like Deansie's in the picture, not that Beth had shown any interest in that particular busted-ass carnival ride for years. 

And like, on that note, yeesh, no thanks. Honestly, with an example like that, is it any wonder Annie's not particularly interested in marriage as a general concept? From what she can tell, it's basically slow death. She'd much rather keep up her habit of, okay, admittedly disastrous hookups. At least she's having fun. Most of the time, anyway. When they don’t follow her home asking for toilet paper. That one was bad. 

And it's not like Beth was going out or anything, despite Annie's best efforts. Pretty much the only time she left the house for something non-mom related was to go to the PP or to make a drop to gang friend. 

Annie's spidey sense had definitely gone a-tingle at that last one, but she's pretty sure Beth wouldn't be dumb enough to make the same mistake twice. Three times? Annie still hadn't been able to get her drunk enough to explain what more or less meant, specifically. Anyway, the point is, the kind of dumbfuckery mounting gang friend again would entail is more Annie's territory than Beth's. Without any sign of new dick on the horizon—or other parts, Annie's still hoping one day Beth will join her on the queer side of the playing field—she's feeling pretty confident about assuming Beth's vagina is more or less ready to board itself up due to neglect and abandonment. 

God, had she even replaced her vibrator after gang friend stole all her shit? Annie hopes so, the alternative is way too depressing to contemplate. She makes a note to go check one day and if not, hit up Ruby to co-sponsor another one. 

"Not to put too fine a point on it, sister mine, but when's the last time you got some? Have you considered it's well past time to get back on the horse? If for no other reason, because I'm starting to get legitimately worried you're going to break your knuckles on the bread."

Beth freezes at that, looking at the dough for a long moment like she's doing the math, which, _ooof,_ if it's all like that, that's not a great sign. 

When she looks up at Annie, blinking furiously, Annie figures she's about to get the brush off like she always does—what could the messy disaster sister have to offer the picture-perfect one, right?—but then the most unexpected thing happens: Beth's face crumples, and she bursts into tears.

For a second, Annie's too shocked to do anything other than stare at her. Then she moves, sliding off the counter and scooching around the corner to wrap an arm around Beth's waist and walk her over to a stool.

"What's wrong? What happened?" she asks, frantically patting Beth's hands, her shoulders, desperate to make her feel better, to stop crying. 

The thing is, Beth doesn't cry, usually. Happy tears, sure, Annie remembers her weeping buckets when Ben was born. Ditto Sara and Harry, and, you know, obviously her own kids. Other than that, for Beth to cry, something needs to be fundamentally wrong. The last time Annie remembers her crying was when she found out about Deansie and his wandering penis, and Annie's still not sure how much of that was the cheating and how much of that was the idea that Beth was going to have to climb out of her cocoon and deal with it. 

She doesn't even think Beth cried when Dean took the kids that one time, the rat-faced fuck. Instead, she'd gone that terrifying kind of numb that Annie _hates_ for the visceral reminder of their—nevermind, not going there. Anyway, Annie can't think of anything that could be crying-level wrong, and the unknown factor terrifies her. 

"He—he—we..." Beth's doing this kind of snuffly stutter thing, and Annie wraps her arms around her, petting Beth's head onto her shoulder. 

It's definitely about comfort, don't get her wrong, but she can't help the tiny corner of her that's thrilled to be the one doing the consoling. It makes her feel like Beth needs her as much as she needs Beth. 

"Just let it out, babe, tell me what happened, we'll figure it out. Is it the kids?"

Beth shakes her head against Annie's shoulder, and Annie lets out a sigh of relief, casting around for what else it could be. What set her off? Not getting laid?

"Is it Deansie?" Annie figures that's probably a pretty reasonable guess—there's plenty to cry about when you put Dean and getting laid in the same sentence—but Beth only shakes her head again. 

At least her tears are starting to subside. She pushes up off of Annie's shoulder and wipes her eyes, hiccuping a little and looking away like she's embarrassed at the outburst. 

Or like she's hiding something. 

Annie frowns, studying her. What the fuck could she be hiding? Did she bone down with someone embarrassing? Who would Beth find embarrassing, especially compared to Annie's history? And why would someone embarrassing make her cry like that? That wasn't embarrassment crying, that was my-heart-is-breaking crying, and the only person she knows of besides Dean that Beth's boned down with and had some kind of attachment to is—

Annie gasps, the puzzle pieces snapping into place. 

" _Beth!_ No!"

Beth flinches. 

"Seriously?" Annie says, giving Beth an opportunity to back out, to tell her she's wrong, but instead, Beth hunches her shoulders and pulls away.

"I know, I know," she says, fiddling with the hem of her apron, her blush flaring like a stoplight. 

" _Do_ you know?" Annie can hear the judgment dripping off the question, and a part of her thinks she should stop, take a breath, be supportive, but the rest of her is too busy screaming and pulling every fire alarm it can to slow down. "It doesn't seem like you know!"

"I just—I mean he's—and I'm—it's so—he's—"

"Ew! No! Stop! I have eyes, I see the appeal, please stop talking!"

Annie hops off her stool and stomps a few feet away, scrubbing her hands over her eyes, trying to forcibly flush her brain of the mental picture trying to take root. Gross, gross, _gross_. 

Then she freezes, remembering what happened the last time things went bad between the two of them.

"Is this a life or death thing? Do you have like, another hit out on you?" Annie asks, sudden fear spinning her back around to Beth, eyes wide. "Fuck, I knew I should've said something when you canceled the Fitzpatrick contract. Maybe we can—"

 _"No!"_ The sheer animal panic in Beth's voice stops Annie up short.

"No, I'm not in danger, we don't—don't joke about that, it's not…" Beth trails off, looking away again, and Annie blinks at her. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Beth is actually, like, afraid? _For_ gang friend instead of _because_ of gang friend? 

"Oh my god, is _this_ why you canceled the contract?" Annie asks, incredulous. How far back did this go? "Ruby and I knew you were full of shit at the time, but we couldn't figure out—"

"You guys talk about me?" Beth interrupts, frowning like her feelings are hurt, and that matters at all in the face of everything else.

"Uh, when you're acting completely insane? _Yeah._ Fuck, this is above my pay grade," Annie says, pulling out her phone. "We need Ruby."

"No!" Beth cries, lurching off the stool. "You can't! She won't—"

"What? Get it? _I_ don't get it!" Annie pauses, her thumb hovering over the call button and studies her sister. 

Beth's flushed, her eyes still damp but also wide and a bit wild. She's staring at Annie with this weird combination of fear and defiance that trips Annie the fuck out. It's normally how Annie's looking at Beth when she gets caught out doing some stupid shit, and seeing it flipped around on her is deeply unnerving.

But at the same time, she can't lie, there's a teensy tiny part of her that's extremely enjoying this role reversal. She thinks of how Beth usually reacts in these situations, snitching Annie out to Ruby immediately and then lecturing her incessantly for the next forty years.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to be the bigger person, show her how it's done. She can always snitch later. 

"Alright, fine," Annie says, shoving her phone back in her pocket. "Explain it to me."

"I—what?"

"Explain it to me! Something obviously happened, and it's significant enough that you're crying over it, so if you don't want me to call Ruby in to drag it out of you, start talking." 

Beth heaves out a breath, slumping against the counter. 

"I don't know where to start," Beth says.

"How about the part where you went from wanting to dance on his grave to dancing on his dick?"

_"Annie!"_

"Start talkin' or I start callin'," Annie says, crossing her arms. 

"Okay, fine," Beth holds up a hand in surrender before letting it drop and taking a deep breath. "You know how with mom, and—and…"

 _Dad_ , Annie knows she's struggling to say. Neither one of them likes talking about their parents much, but especially not that loser. 

"Someone had to take care of us," Beth continues, making Annie's nose wrinkle, but she doesn't argue, she knows it's true. "And then there was Dean, and the kids, and I was happy, don't get me wrong. It wasn't like I didn't want any of this, but...have you ever stopped and looked at your life, and realized that somewhere along the way you've become this person that you aren't even sure you are, but everyone thinks you are so you sort of accept that it's true?"

"Literally all the time," Annie says, dropping down onto a stool next to Beth. "My entire life is people telling me who I am based on how I seem. You included."

She pokes Beth at the last part, and Beth smiles ruefully. 

"I'm sorry about that."

"It's fine." Annie waves it off. "Stop stalling and trying to make me feel bad for you so I forget how dumb you're being."

"I'm not—" Beth huffs. "There's a point to—oh never mind. Look, with—with him, with Rio—"

It hasn't occurred to Annie until that moment how rarely Beth actually says his name, and she can't tell if it's the foreign sound of it in Beth's mouth or her tone of voice that makes it seem so weighted, so significant. 

"—he _sees_ me," Beth continues. "Not me the mom, or me the wife, or me the sister, or friend, or PTA chair—"

"Or three-time mini muffin making queen of Michigan," Annie interrupts. "I'm just sayin' it's not all bad."

Beth rolls her eyes. "Right, or that. The point is when I'm around him, I feel...like _me._ And it scares me because I don't...sometimes I don't even think I know who that is. But when I'm around him, it just...it feels— _I_ feel good. Awake. Like I'm a whole person."

She stops talking at that and stares down at her hands, silently picking at a cuticle while Annie struggles to absorb everything. 

Annie feels awkward now, about thinking that Beth had this whole other person inside her. She hadn’t known that Beth felt that way too—which, to be fair, is partially Beth’s fault, she never says any of this stuff to anyone. She knew Beth repressed a lot but she hadn’t really realized how much she’d been repressing her entire self.

She squirms a little on her stool, she doesn’t like knowing how much she’d made Beth feel like she had to do that. 

"Damn," Annie says after a long moment, filing her personal introspection as something to deal with later and focusing on the matter at hand. "I was expecting like, he's got huge hands and knows how to use 'em, or I like the D or something, but you like, _like_ him."

Beth sputters, looking at Annie like her brain is breaking at the struggle of deciding which part of that to react to. She finally seems to give up and just nods, furtive and shy, like she's been doing something bad and she knows it, but she's not sorry. 

To be honest, the role reversal of all of this is doing Annie's head in almost more than the rest of it. 

"Well. Fuck." Annie blinks a little, genuinely at a loss for how to fit everything she's feeling into her brain. 

There's still a hefty amount of fear that Beth is doing something really, really stupid, but now she also has to make room for the idea that she's not just like, doing it, that it means something to her. And Annie doesn't know how she feels about that last part. 

"So you're in pretty deep, huh?"

Beth hesitates, chewing on her lip for a second, and then nods, a movement so small and so miserable Annie feels her heart quiver a little bit. The fear and apprehension move over a bit to make room for pity, and a flare of anger sparks to life that anyone would make her sister feel like this. 

"Does he know? Is that—what happened?"

"I don't _know,"_ Beth cries, and it's like a dam breaking, all of the anguish she's been holding back nearly visibly bursting out of her. "Everything was fine, _good_ even. We'd been...you know…"

"Yes, yes, I know, please move on before you give me a mental picture I can't get rid of."

"Right, well, it had been...awhile."

"How long is a while?" Annie interrupts, curiosity getting the better of her. 

"Um, a few months? Since April?"

" _April?!"_ Annie's screech echoes around the kitchen. "Bitch, it is three days away from August! How did you not say anything?"

The look Beth gives her is answer enough. _Look how you're reacting_ , it says.

"Fine, sorry, shutting up now." She mimes zipping her lips and tries her best to look contrite and sympathetic. 

The story pours out of Beth, like a part of her has been desperately wanting to tell it, and she probably has, Annie realizes. It's gotta suck keeping so much pent up inside her. 

Apparently, they'd been hooking up at the drops—for _months_ —without really talking about anything, which is so incredibly on-brand for Beth, Annie wants to scream. Things had been fine, good even, getting to a point where both of them seemed pretty comfortable. Then, a week ago, out of the blue, Rio had thrown a hissy fit, basically said he was only pity fucking Beth, stormed off, and she hadn't seen or talked to him since. 

"I'm sorry, he said _what?"_

"That it was just a—a _service._ " Beth's moved past the weepy portion of her emotional cycle and is settling comfortably into outrage. "That he was, and I quote, 'helping sad, lonely housewives get off when their husbands are done with them.'"

"Wow, that's cold."

"I know! If he didn't want to tell anyone, he could've just told—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Annie cuts her off. "What about not telling anyone?"

"I was asking if he wanted to tell people, and it was like I flipped a switch."

"That's bizarre," Annie says with a frown. "I mean, if he was out there trying to fuck with you, wouldn't it make more sense to like, tell people and _then_ dump you? Way more embarrassing."

"Thanks," Beth says, dry, chasing it with a sip of the bourbon she'd pulled out halfway through the story. 

"I'm just saying," Annie says, tipping her own glass to Beth. "Doesn't make sense."

"Since when does anything he does make sense," Beth grumbles.

Annie frowns but lets it go. The thing is, while on the surface gang friend can exude some pretty unstoppably chaotic energy, he generally does seem to have some sort of method to his madness, it's just not always immediately apparent. Especially not where Beth is concerned.

"You should tell Ruby," she says instead.

"I know," Beth says, soft. "I just...I didn't want you guys to look at me differently."

"Different how? Like you're a complete lunatic with a borderline death wish? Too late, babe. We've been there."

Beth snorts. 

"Besides, if you don't tell her, I am definitely going to end up giving it away," Annie continues. "I won't be able to help it. It's too juicy."

"That's true."

"Just tell her," Annie says, nudging her shoulder against Beth's. "She's not gonna stop loving you, and neither am I. We'll just, you know, give you shit for it for the rest of your life."

Beth groans and drops her head on the counter. "Fine."

Then she bumps her elbow against Annie's. "Thanks for listening."

"Are you kidding?" Annie drapes herself across Beth in an awkward sideways hug. "My absolute pleasure. I cannot believe I get to be the respectable sister these days."

"I wouldn't go that far," Beth says, still muffled by the counter.

"Good thing you don't get a say," Annie says, looking around the kitchen. "So, not to pile on in your time of trouble or anything, but what the fuck are you gonna do with all this bread?"

Beth lifts her head up just enough to absorb how much dough is rising around her before dropping it back down with a thud.

"Yeah," Annie agrees, patting her back and sipping her bourbon. "Good plan."

—————

It takes some doing, but once Ruby's looped in on the situation, the two are able to manufacture a plausible enough reason to get Beth to miss the next drop and agree to Annie going in her stead. Granted, what Ruby's going to do when she gets Beth to the church, and Beth realizes she's there for a regularly scheduled soup kitchen and not the emergency Ruby made it seem like, Annie doesn't know. But that gets to be Ruby's problem, Annie's got a mission of her own.

"What are you even hoping to accomplish?" Ruby had asked.

"I don't know, but he made her cry, and that will not stand," Annie told her.

Now that Annie's actually letting herself into the showroom though, the little voice in her head that's more or less constantly asking _what the fuck are you doing_ with varying degrees of urgency and exasperation is pretty loud. 

Luckily, she's got a lifetime of experience ignoring it, so she doesn't let it slow her down.

She's got a minute to herself before Mick shows up—or, who knows, maybe even the man himself—so she lets herself into the office and fires up the computer. She clicks around in the internet history, checking to see what Deansie's been up to. It looks like he's been doing some research for his fantasy football draft, boring, looking up pictures of corvettes, sad, and watching a lot of girl-on-girl, predictably gross. Nothing she needs to be particularly concerned with. 

The bell on the door jingles from out in the showroom and Annie closes out the browser. She sits up and folds her hands on the desktop, trying to make her posture as mature and professional—intimidating, even—as she can while sitting in a chair made for someone twice her size. She licks her lips and tries to calm her suddenly racing pulse with a deep, steadying breath.

"Oh, it's you," she says, deflating a little when Mick appears in the doorway, let down and more than a little relieved—which is weird when she thinks about it. It's not like Mick's any less dangerous or scary than Rio, it's just that something about him makes her think of a teddy bear, she can't explain it, but it disarms her every time.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, as entirely unflapped as he's ever been. 

"Multitasking," Annie says, nodding to the seat across from her. 

Mick slides into the visitor's chair, eyeing her warily. She slides the ledger across the desk to him and waits until he's opened it and pulls out a little notebook—hilarious accessory, looks like something an old-timey secretary would carry. Annie stifles a giggle at the sudden picture of Mick scurrying around behind Rio scribbling notes. It's smart, though, a lot easier to destroy a piece of paper than to delete a digital footprint off the cloud. She remembers the unfortunate phone syncing incident with a shudder. She won't make the same mistake twice. 

Well, not about that anyway. 

Annie clears her throat, and Mick looks up at her, already resigned—which is unfair, really. He doesn't even know her, she might be about to say something delightful. 

"So, Michael—"

"Mick."

"Michael. You may have noticed we've found ourselves in a bit of an interpersonal pickle here." 

Annie smiles, winningly, but he just blinks at her, unmovable and impassive as ever. Tough crowd. 

"I can't imagine things are all that pleasant on your end of things, and I, for one, am fed up with the situation."

Mick nods, slowly and Annie nearly squirms at the victory. 

"What are you gonna do about it?" He asks. 

"Give me your phone," Annie demands. 

Now he's back to just looking at her. Men. Good for absolutely nothing. 

"Level with me, dude," she says, leaning forward. "I have only known about this for a week, and I am exhausted by it. I can see from the way you've aged about a thousand years since the last time I saw you, you've probably been in it a lot longer. I cannot imagine how over it you are."

He raises his eyebrows but still doesn't say anything, and for a minute Annie thinks he's going to keep stonewalling her, which sucks because she'd shot her shot and didn't have a backup plan. But then he pulls out his phone and she nearly falls out of her chair.

"Thank you." Holy fuck, she even got a little bit of a smile for that one. Red-letter day. 

He swipes it open and pulls up a contact before handing it to her, and Annie appreciates the way he's not gonna beat around the bush now that he's committed to the course. 

Mick's got Rio in there as C, which gives her pause, but she sticks a pin in that for later, priorities and all, and hits FaceTime. 

"What the fuck?" 

Rio's face is a portrait of confusion when he picks up, so Annie supposes they don't really do video chats. It makes sense, actually. Probably a lot of incriminating backgrounds. 

This one looks like a bar, though, and she wonders if he's out on a date. If he’s out with some floozy while her sister is moping around stress baking and pretending not to cry, Annie swears to god she will find him, and she will cut off his balls and put them in a pickling jar. She doesn't care how many people he's had murdered. 

Then Rio registers it's Annie and not Mick, and his face does some complicated thing that Beth probably understands, but Annie sure as fuck doesn't. 

"No," he says, and then hangs up on her! The _nerve_. 

She hits FaceTime again, but this time he doesn't answer. 

Annie looks up at Mick, and he just shrugs, holding up his vape pen. "Can I?"

"Only if you share," she says, tapping FaceTime a third time and leaning back in the chair, propping her feet up on the desk while the call rings out. 

Rio holds out for eight more redials, which is impressive. Annie respects the attempt. 

"What?" He snarls when he finally answers again. He's outside this time. If he's on a date, Annie hopes she's ruined it. 

"Bad time?" she asks all faux sympathy and camaraderie. 

Mick snorts. 

"What do you want?" He's enunciating, which is new and probably a warning sign that Annie gives precisely zero fucks about. What's he going to do? Come through the phone?

"Good instincts, by the way. The hanging up?" Annie clarifies when he frowns. "You should probably avoid me for a while because the next time I see you, I don't care if you've got a gun to my head, I am gonna get you, motherfucker, for what you did to my sister."

That catches him off guard and his face, like, flickers and he looks super old for half a second. Which is really weird. First, because Annie doesn't know how old he is exactly, somewhere between her and Beth, and it’s not like Beth is exactly one foot in the grave—for age-related reasons, anyway—so the whole old man and the sea thing doesn't sit right on him. Second because Annie's pretty sure she's never actually seen him like, visibly react to anything in any way other than laughing at it or getting mad and trying to kill it, but if she had to label it, she'd say she'd just seen actual...regret? Total mind fuck. 

"What do you want," he asks again, but it comes out tired this time. 

"Uh, I want to know what the fuck, dude." Annie adjusts the phone for a better angle, trying to look intimidating. "You made my sister cry."

His face goes back to blank. "She know you're calling?" 

"Ha! Please, she would murder me faster than you could ever hope to, but the thing about being the little sister is sometimes you have to take things into your own hands. So, here we are. Care to explain yourself?"

"What'd she tell you?"

"Um, everything? Or at least as much everything as I would let her before I incurred emotional damage from details I didn't need to hear." 

There's that flicker again, interesting. 

"Alright, look. I don't know what the fuck actually happened between the two of you, but as far as Beth can tell, she thought things were good, and you flipped shit for no reason. I figure it's probably a little more complicated than that because I have watched Beth more or less professionally misinterpret reality my whole life. That said, you were a fucking dick on top of being a general murdery asshole—"

Annie pauses, swallowing hard as her brain reminds her she's alone in a hot tub store after hours with another murdery asshole. The things she does for her sister. 

"Listen, just tell me one thing," she continues, pushing past the fear. "And please know I am like, desperately mortified for all of us at how juvenile this all is, but I'm just playing on the field the two of you picked out for us. Do you like my sister?"

The glare Rio levels at Annie would have her quaking under normal circumstances, but definitely loses a significant amount of heat on the tiny screen. 

"Well?" She asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"He does."

"Michael!" Annie cries, nearly giving herself whiplash as she looks over at him, practically levitating out of her seat in delight. 

"He's a mess," Mick says, without looking up from what he's doing. 

"What the _fuck?"_

Annie looks back at the phone, and Rio looks so deeply betrayed she can't stop herself from laughing. 

"Damn dude, called _out,_ " she manages to get out between giggles. "Wait, wait, wait, don't hang up, hold on, give me a minute."

Annie waves the phone at Mick and then puts her head down on the desk when he takes it, letting herself go helpless with laughter over the utter absurdity of the situation she's found herself in the middle of. In hindsight, she definitely shouldn't have hit the vape that many times, she's not nearly in control enough for this. 

"I told you, I'm sick of this shit," she hears Mick saying, which sets Annie off all over again. 

God, what the actual fuck is her life right now? She's basically pulling some like, Parent Trap style scheme with a gang member she kind of likes for reasons totally unknown to her, attempting to reconcile her uptight sister with this other gang member Annie also kind of likes, even as she's also extremely terrified of him. 

What the fuck, honestly. 

Annie sits back up, wiping her nose and eyes, and gestures for Mick to give her the phone. 

"Alright," she says, once she's looking at Rio again. "You're clearly in a bad spot, so I'm gonna give you a freebie. Just fuckin' talk to my sister. She _likes_ you, okay? For some reason I cannot even remotely fathom, I'm rooting for you crazy kids. Work it out."

She disconnects on the last word, not giving him a chance to respond and make her regret what she's just done any more than she already does. 

"So, Michael," Annie says, pulling up a new contact and entering her number. 

"Mick."

"Sure." She sends herself a text and hands his phone back. "How do you feel about brunch?"

—————

Annie can't exactly say that night is on her mind when she drops by Beth's a few weeks later. The kids have gone back to school, and she needs help with her FAFSA, and sure, maybe she gets tunnel vision sometimes, but what can she say? She finally passed her GED exam and got accepted into WCCC, she's got momentum, and she's not trying to waste it. 

Okay, fine, maybe she could've called ahead, but it's 11’o’clock on a Wednesday morning, what the fuck is Beth going to be doing? 

"Please tell me gang friend left some stuff behind when he cleaned you out," Annie calls as she lets herself in through the side door. "Or that blowing him for three months bought you a clue. I have no fucking idea how to look up my tax returns online, and I'd stashed the hard copies with yours in the office file cabinet."

She stops, surprised by the empty kitchen and laundry room, but then shrugs, Beth might be running around collecting the laundry.

"Beth?" 

Nothing. Huh, maybe she went to the grocery store.

Annie heads straight for the fridge to inspect the leftover situation and stops, hand on the door. She thought she heard something. 

"Beth?"

Still nothing. Shrugging to herself, she opens the door and starts rooting around. Fucking score, there’s pot roast. 

Right as she dumps her prize on the counter, she freezes. She definitely heard a noise this time, and it sounded like Beth crying out, like she's maybe in pain. Every cell in Annie's body goes on high alert, and she frantically looks around the kitchen for anything she can use as a weapon, finally catching on—oh, right, duh. Kitchen. Big knives.

She grabs the chef's knife and creeps towards Beth's room, doing her best to avoid the creaky spots on the floor. She hears the cry again when she's a few feet away, and it's definitely Beth. 

Throwing caution to the wind, Annie sprints to the door and crashes through it, knife raised, only to skid to a stop as her brain rapidly processes what’s in front of her.

The noise was definitely Beth. She was definitely not in distress, or at least not unwanted distress. She is also very definitely naked, sprawled out on the bed, with what Annie presumes is an equally naked man—though the sheets are crumpled up in a way that makes it hard for Annie to say for sure, he could be wearing socks—hard at work between her legs, distinctive block tattoos stacked up his arms.

 _"Aaagh!"_ Annie flings a hand over her eyes, barely keeping a hold of the knife and not stabbing herself, which she deserves a fucking medal for, given the circumstances. 

_"Get out!"_ Beth yells, flinging a pillow at Annie at the same time, and, _right._

Annie shuffles backward as fast as she can, right into the door and stumbles half a step towards the bed, falling on her ass as she tries to overcorrect in the other direction.

She uses both hands to catch herself, knife gouging the floorboards, and her eyes fly open reflexively. Which means she's now looking at the bed and can see Rio looking curiously down at her, and _oh god_ , his _mouth_ is _wet._

"Get _out_ ," Beth shouts again.

"I'm _trying,"_ Annie yells back because what does Beth think she's doing? Seriously!

She scrambles backward, scooting along with her hands and heels as fast as she can until she's blessedly back in the hall and pushes herself up, full-on sprinting for the kitchen. She can hear that motherfucker _laughing_ , and at least Beth has the decency to tell him to shut up, a hysterical edge to her voice. 

Annie's glad one of them seems to have a proper appreciation for how deeply traumatizing this is.

She heads straight for the liquor cabinet, pulls out the bourbon, not bothering with a glass, and takes a gulp straight from the bottle.

It's not like she doesn't know Beth's had sex. Obviously, she's aware of how babies are made, and it's not like she's going to forget the shock of figuring out that her uptight older sister who needed, like, a full year of coaching before she'd even buy a vibrator boned a fucking _crime lord_. But it's one thing to theoretically know and entirely different to have it burned into her retinas.

Annie shakes her head, trying to clear the mental picture. When that doesn't work, she takes another shot. 

It's taking Beth a suspiciously long time to come out and console her, and the thought they're actually, like, _finishing,_ when she's out here is just, _gross._ Insulting, really. Appalling, even. If this is the kind of bad behavior gang friend inspires in Beth, Annie has severe regrets for any part she may have played in this reunion.

Oh god, is she responsible for this? Are these the consequences of _her_ actions? Annie takes a third shot.

She gives it another five minutes before she calls it. 

Extremely miffed, she marches over to Beth's crafting table, pulls out a piece of paper and marker and scribbles out a short note. Then she fishes her earbuds out of her bag and cranks up the loudest, rowdiest song she can find—probably giving herself hearing damage, something else she's absolutely blaming Beth for—and edges towards the bedroom, folding the piece of paper into a paper airplane as she goes.

When she gets close enough that she's pretty sure she can make the shot, she lets the note fly. Then she spins on her heel and full-on sprints out of the house, pausing only long enough to grab her purse and the bottle of bourbon she's claiming as recompense for her trauma.

—————

Michael:

oh yeah, start knocking. made that mistake once already.

Ruby Tuesday:

What'd the note say?

Dear fuckers, you owe me big. Congratulations.

Ruby Tuesday:

Laughed at "Dear fuckers, you owe me big. Congratulations."

Michael:

we on for ihop later or what?


	4. Ruby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a massive shout out to [foxmagpie](https://foxmagpie.tumblr.com/) for listening to me whine, looking at an early draft of the first half and giving me feedback/helping me untangle/define the trajectory for the rest of the chapter, and generally being amazing.

Beth's tense as hell. 

She's trying to hide it, throwing all of her energy into crafting autumnal leaves and placing them just so on top of the already intricate latticework over the apple raspberry pie. 

Like Ruby can't hear it in the brittle edge of her laugh, see it in the stiff corners of her too-bright smile. If it hadn't been a game they'd been playing for over half their lives—Beth pretending she's a blank slate and Ruby letting her—it would be insulting, the idea that Ruby can't read her like a book at this point.

She and Annie had known the holidays were going to be rough. 

Even without it being the first set since the divorce, Beth's always gone so far over the top she broke through the stratosphere. Ruby doesn't know if her maniacal need to outdo every basic crafty bitch on the internet is more a side effect of her childhood or her fierce and unquenchable competitive streak—most likely some unholy union of the two. 

Beth applies it to every holiday, but the Big Three—Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas—were something else. It's like she needs three months, not counting twice that time in planning and lead up, to fully hit her stride. Each one is a more complicated production than the last. Ruby isn't sure if it's for the sake of her kids or proving something to herself or if those two things are one and the same. 

The point is, she takes them  _ seriously. _

They'd gotten through Halloween okay. It's not like it had ever really been Dean's holiday. Beth would spend weeks making the kids' costumes, decorating the house and the yard, and making some kind of extravagant, allergy-free treat to hand out. Dean would swan in at the last minute, eat a dent in the candy, and take off with the kids, inevitably keeping them out too long and bringing them back sticky, cranky, and over-sugared and leave them to Beth to wind down.

This Halloween, Beth tried to smooth the transition for the kids as much as possible. Dean still came over to take the kids out, but Beth also invited Ruby and Annie to bring Sara, Harry, and Ben over so the group could go together and then stay over, banking on the chaos and excitement to keep her kids from noticing when Dean went back to his apartment. 

It worked out well for Ruby and Annie's plans too, they didn't have to manufacture excuses to check-in. They'd stayed up with Beth after the kids were down, marathoning the Scream movies per Beth's annual after-hours tradition—he got a borderline sick thrill from slasher flicks, truth be told, and could nearly probably recite the first movie on cue—and watching her closely to see if she broke.

To Ruby's surprise, Beth was actually in a pretty upbeat mood. A suspiciously upbeat mood. She'd been on her phone a lot throughout the night, and Ruby couldn't help notice that when Annie showed her the picture Mick dropped in the group chat of Marcus dressed as Pikachu, Beth didn't react like she was seeing it for the first time. Ruby didn't say anything at the time, not wanting to rock the boat, but it'd put her antenna up.

And then came Thanksgiving.

For as long as Ruby's known her, Beth's been uptight about Thanksgiving. It makes sense, she and Annie hadn't exactly had a childhood conducive to a holiday centered around a big family meal. Then, when Dean—and by extension Judith—came into the picture, Judith treated the holiday like a gauntlet she was throwing down. 

Beth hadn't said anything outright, but Ruby'd read between the lines and knew the turkey-necked hag had more than once heavily implied Beth would never be able to host a holiday meal up to Judith's standards for her precious son, not that Judith would ever give her room to try.

Even after she'd had Kenny and Beth started hosting Thanksgiving, between Dean's wistful  _ well, my mom always did this's _ and Judith's passive-aggressive  _ oh, you're going to serve that's _ , it's not like she ever had much room to make the holiday her own. 

That hadn't stopped her from throwing herself headfirst into the challenge. Dean would only eat canned cranberry sauce? Fine, she'd serve it on a bed of spiced nuts of all shapes and sizes that flawlessly coordinated with the trim in the napkins. Judith refused to entertain the idea that Thanksgiving potatoes could be anything other than mashed? Then Beth would artistically pipe them into individual parfait dishes out of a pastry bag. 

Ruby and Annie have been on high alert since September, not sure how Beth was going to react to her first Thanksgiving without Dean. Or Judith, for that matter, calling the shots from the sidelines.

Up until today, the answer seemed to be surprisingly well. Definitely better than the last few  _ with _ Dean seeing as two years ago, the holiday came on the cusp of Dean bringing the kids back. 

That year, Beth had been an exposed nerve. She'd fussed over every last detail with a nearly maniacal fixation like if she stopped to let herself breathe, she'd fall apart and not be able to put herself back together. 

The following year, the holiday ended with Beth so fed up by Dean's increasingly more petulant fixation on her reemerged relationship with Rio, she'd slammed a stack of plates down on the island and demanded he file the divorce papers they'd both signed earlier that year. Annie had done a reenactment of Dean's face for Ruby a few weeks later, and Ruby'd laughed so hard her wine came out her nose. Beth hadn't found the situation as funny, and to say it had put a damper on the rest of the holiday season was an understatement. 

This year, Beth approached the day with the kind of dedicated focus and preparation generally reserved for Olympic athletes preparing for the games. 

She'd graciously agreed to host her meal after Judith's, accepting the added difficulty of fielding her four children strung out from a previous meal without blinking. She'd then turned around, invited the Hills, and told Annie to open up her invitation to Gregg, Nancy, and Dakota if Annie felt okay about it. She'd shyly confessed she'd always wanted to do bigger Thanksgivings, but Dean had always thought it would take too much of her attention away from the kids and the meal. She'd said it quietly, her shoulders hunched and eyes darting around like she was confessing to murder, and not to having a trash ex-husband—something no one she was talking to was unaware of. 

All things considered, Beth had seemed to be pretty well in her element and was owning the holiday with a confident contentment Ruby was seeing more and more as she's grabbed hold of the reins of her life. It'd warm her heart if it weren't all rooted in, well, the distinctly not heartwarming criminal empire they were building behind Dean's back at Boland Bubbles.

The behind Dean's back part was pretty funny, though. 

So, it was a little surprising to show up to help with the day ahead prep to find Beth with bags under her eyes and a thrumming, nervous tension in her shoulders, but Ruby'd known there was another shoe waiting to drop, it was only a moment of when.

"I thought you said you were going to help," Beth says, glaring at Annie, who's lounging on her stool on the other side of the counter and messing with her phone, a bowl of unhusked peas in front of her.

"And I will," Annie shoots back, not looking up. "Can I get a minute, or am I ruining The Schedule?"

Ruby laughs, not looking up from the potatoes she's peeling—to be scalloped, not mashed, Beth had told her with a damn near perverse level of glee. 

The Schedule's no joke, it's a laminated, color-coordinated document stuck to the door of the fridge, breaking down every step of the meal in 15-minute increments. Beth had been living her life according to its gospel for the past three days.

"What's so important?" Beth frowns when Annie still doesn't look up.

"She's been trying to get Mick to go to that new gay bar over in Delray with her," Ruby says, flicking a peel at Annie to get her attention. They had a  _ deal. _

Annie puts her phone down at that, sheepishly shrugging at Ruby, as much as an apology as she's willing to give.

"Oh?" Beth's voice is small, and when Ruby looks over, she's got this put out, sucking on lemons twist to her mouth. 

Ruby can't help smirking a little, Beth—and Rio, according to Mick—was so  _ bothered _ when she found out about the group chat. 

_ "I mean, it's not like you guys talk about us, right?" Beth had said.  _

_ "Um, obviously we do," Annie responded before Ruby could come up with something diplomatic. "That's literally why the group exists." _

Apparently, both of them are trying to play off like they're not. Ruby assumes Rio's doing a better job than Beth, just because she can't picture him looking so openly pouty every time it comes up.

"Whats, uh, what's Mick doing for Thanksgiving?" Beth asks it in an excruciatingly casual tone that's fooling absolutely no one. From the way a flush creeps up her chest and spreads across her cheeks, she knows it. 

"What's Mick doing, or what's Mick's  _ boss _ doing?" Annie teases, mouthing  _ what? _ in response to the face Ruby makes at her. 

"Nevermind," Beth says, focusing extra hard on the placement of a flourish.

"Just say the word, and I'll find out." Annie waves her phone at Beth, gleeful at her sister's obvious discomfort. "All you have to do is ask."

"That's not—that's not what I was—" Beth's sputtering, her blush flaring higher and redder.

"You know what? Who needs the suspense?" Annie thumbs at her phone. "I'm gonna ask."

_ "No!" _

Ruby jolts, sending a potato peel flying. The kitchen abruptly seems too silent in the wake of Beth's yell, and Ruby hears Annie's teeth click when she snaps her mouth shut.

Beth's blinking furiously, like she's trying to stuff something down deep, and she's got that simultaneously pinched and bug-eyed look about her that usually means she's one unexpected catastrophe away from breaking. 

_ There's that other shoe. _

"What's going on, B?" Ruby asks, cautiously. 

She's obviously got something going on with Rio, and when it comes to the two of them, there's no telling what they could be wading into. It makes her grateful for the group chat, actually. She's pretty sure at this point Mick would at least give them a heads up if things were going all the way wrong. 

Ruby tenses. Unless he hasn't caught wind of it yet. She's been assuming Rio tells him more than Beth tells them, mostly because a brick wall is more communicative than Beth under most circumstances. 

"Nothing! Nothing's going on. It's just…" She trails off, chewing on her lip, not looking at either of them. 

Ruby sneaks a glance at Annie, who widens her eyes and shakes her head; she doesn't know either.

"I don't  _ know!"  _ The words burst out of Beth, but she doesn't follow them up with anything, still blinking furiously, rolling what was once a pie leaf between her fingers, balling it up and smashing it over and over.

Ruby waits, trying to decide how much to pry.

"Is everything okay?" she asks eventually when it becomes obvious Beth's going to fidget herself into old age before she continues. 

"Yeah, I mean…" Beth glances up, then back down, like she's feeling shy. "Things are good, really good, actually."

There's a kind of disbelieving wonder in her voice when she says it like she can't remember the last time she'd felt good in a relationship. It makes Ruby's hands twitch, the desire to knock Dean's teeth out so strong her fingers curl into fists almost without her realizing it. 

"Good enough that I…" Beth trails off.

Ruby's hit with a sudden, horrifying memory and looks to the ceiling for a moment, praying for composure. "Bitch, I swear to God, if you say you did something."

"No! Nothing like that, I—" Beth stops, her blush reigniting and eyes darting up to assess Ruby's face, then to Annie's. 

Ruby makes sure she keeps it as neutral as she can, not wanting Beth to clam up when she's finally sharing, hoping Annie has the sense to do the same. 

"I almost invited Rio and Marcus to Thanksgiving."

_ Oh. _

That's... Look, Ruby knows they've been hooking up for a while. On and off for the better part of a year, she realizes with a jolt—longer if you count from the first time. But Beth's been so tight-lipped about it that Ruby's never really been able to figure out if it's just sleeping together or something more. 

Inviting him to Thanksgiving though, that' s—that's something more. 

Ruby squirms a little, not sure how that sits with her.

She can't really fathom it—Rio scares her, and she's pretty sure he always will—but she's not Beth. She has eyes; she's caught enough of their little asides at drops. She's seen the way he looks at Beth and how different it is compared to her or Annie to know that there's something between them Ruby isn't privy to.

But still, there's a world of difference between being captivated by someone—and having what she can only assume is really great sex, again, Ruby has eyes—and inviting him and  _ his kid _ to one of your high holy days. 

Ruby thought she'd been paying attention to the situation, but clearly not enough, and that's not going to work for her anymore.

"Is that a… bad thing?" Ruby asks, more cautious than ever. 

"Yes! No! I don't know!" Beth throws her hands in the air, waving them around to encompass the kitchen, The Schedule, the supplies and ingredients neatly grouped by purpose on every available counter space. "This isn't what we  _ do!" _

"Do you… want it… to be?" Annie asks, the words slow and halting like she's navigating through low visibility over ground sprinkled with landmines. 

"I don't  _ know! _ " Beth cries a third time. "How am I supposed to—how can we—"

She stops, running her hands over her face, and when she pushes her hair back, she does that furtive little glance again, and Ruby realizes she's looking to the two of them for approval.

It stops Ruby up short and has her rocking back on her stool. She turns to Annie, but Annie's looking back at her, helpless, so, right. It falls to Ruby. 

She carefully arranges the peeled potatoes, making room to start slicing them and giving herself a moment to think through how to approach this.

"How would the kids take that, meeting him for the first time?"

Ruby throws it out there, assuming if there's anything that will settle Beth, it's bringing her kids into it. But, instead of nodding like Ruby expects her to, Beth hunches her shoulders a little and bites her lip and— _ oh. _

"Has he already met them?" Ruby asks, wincing inwardly shrill edge creeping into her voice. She knows it's not going to help, knows she needs to play this right, or Beth will shut all the way down, but she can't help it. 

It's one thing for Beth to be sleeping with him but if he's met her kids...Ruby looks to Annie to see if she knew, but from the wide-eyed, jaw-dropped look on her face, she's just as shocked by the news.

"I mean, not—It was—" 

Now it's Beth's turn to squirm, plucking at the extra pie crust so agitatedly Ruby leans across the island to pull the pie out of the way before Beth undoes all her work and gets really upset. 

"He's been to the house," Beth finally admits. 

"How did you even introduce him?" Annie asks, eyes wide. "This is mommy's  _ special friend?" _

"No!" Beth blurts, then stops, thinking. "I mean, I guess kind of? I told them he's my friend."

"Oh my  _ god," _ Annie says, pulling out her phone. "I cannot believe something this juicy hasn't made its way through the grapevine yet. I'm so sad I missed it."

"Well, if you guys are going to just... _ text _ about it, we're not going to tell you things," Beth grumbles. 

"Hold up, wait, I'm sorry," Ruby breaks in, unable to deal with the jokes when she's still trying to wrap her head around how far this has gone without her knowing. "Go back to the part where you introduced the  _ gangbanger _ you're  _ sleeping with _ to your  _ children _ , and this is the  _ first we're hearing about it!" _

Beth blanches, guilt painting itself clear as day across her face, and Ruby doesn't know what to do. A part of her instinctively wants to back down, to comfort Beth and assure her it's okay. But the rest of her is reeling at the idea that Beth's bringing Rio around her children, that's she's  _ comfortable _ enough with him to do so. 

Because here's the thing: Ruby  _ doesn't _ approve. Ruby hates this, hates that Beth's been seeing him in any capacity, let alone a personal one. She fundamentally cannot wrap her head around Beth,  _ Beth _ —super mom, five year PTA president, crafting queen, certified Good Person—sleeping with,  _ forgiving, _ a crime lord who  _ murders _ people. Who  _ murdered _ someone  _ they knew  _ in _ front of them. _

Sure, okay, she's done some shit, but there's a difference between who you actually are and the things you have to do because of the position you're in, right? Ruby has to believe that or… Well. 

Ruby takes a breath, marshaling her thoughts, and looks up at Beth, ready to say her piece, but stops. 

Beth's got the funniest expression on her face. It's one part defiance, one part fear, and then one part this resigned, apprehensive sadness. She knows everything that Ruby's thinking, knows that Ruby's thinking it too, knows what Ruby's about to say and is not only steeling herself to hear it but mourning what will come next and it's the last part that gives Ruby pause. 

If Ruby pushes, if she lets loose, she's pretty sure Beth will break things off. She'll do it because a part of her knows she should, and she'll do it because another part of her hates letting her friends down, and, most tragically of all, she'll do it because Beth's life has trained her time and time again to put everyone else in front of what she wants to the point that it's basically a reflex. 

But. 

But Beth's introduced him to her  _ kids _ , which means Beth's in deep. Ruby can't pretend she hasn't noticed the spring in Beth's steps these past few weeks. It's not just being happy to finally take control of her life, there's an extra spark on top that Ruby's avoided thinking too hard about what's behind it.

She remembers how well Beth had weathered Halloween, the tiny smile playing around her lips when she'd been on her phone, trying to hide how often she was looking at it with her knee. 

Ruby wonders how many toothbrushes she'd find in Beth's bathroom.

This isn't just sleeping with, Ruby realizes, this is the beginning of—God, maybe even the middle of—a  _ relationship _ . This is  _ feelings. _

Ruby swallows back the lecture that had been building in her chest. 

"You should've told us, B," Ruby says, the words coming out on a sigh. "Letting Annie be there would've been like, at least five years worth of birthday presents."

It's like a thousand-pound weight lifts off of Beth's shoulders at Ruby's words, and the relieved smile that breaks across her face goes a little wobbly around the edges for a second before she gets it back under control.

"It's true," Annie nods like a bobblehead doll, obviously relieved at the break in the tension. "I could've lived on that for years. I'll forgive you if I can be there when you tell Dean."

Beth rolls her eyes and reclaims the pie Ruby'd moved to safety.

"So, what are you gonna do?" Annie asks, absently eating a pea straight out of the pod. "Are you gonna invite him?"

"It's too late," Beth says. "It's tomorrow, he has plans."

"You sure? It never hurts to ask. You're eating kind of late thanks to Judith," Annie points out. "Maybe they could come for dessert."

"Would that...do you think that would be okay?" Beth says it in response to Annie, but she looks to Ruby, and Ruby knows she's really asking if  _ they _ would be okay with it.

Ruby looks down, fiddling with the paring knife. It's a big ask, having Stan, having her  _ kids _ around him. She doesn't trust Rio, doesn't know if she'll ever trust him, hates the idea of him knowing anything about her family.

She glances up, and Beth's concentrating on the pie like she isn't holding her breath, waiting for Ruby's response. Her eyes flick up, and they both look away when they meet.

But apparently Beth trusts him, and Ruby trusts Beth. 

She takes a deep breath.

"It never hurts to ask," Ruby says, meeting Beth's eyes properly this time when she says it. She knows her smile is a little too small, a little too apprehensive, but it's true, and it's enough that Beth's eyes go glassy as she absorbs everything Ruby's saying.

Ruby lets out the breath in a gust. She's never been so glad Stan's already in the loop, she can't imagine how she would've explained Beth dating a guy with a  _ throat tattoo _ two years ago.

Oh  _ God _ , Beth's  _ dating _ gang friend.

"What do you want me to do with these, B?" Ruby asks, gesturing at the pile of sliced potatoes in front of her, trying to get them back on semi-sane ground.

"I, um," Beth's voice is thick, and she swipes furtively under her eye. "Put them in the second biggest mixing bowl and cover them with cold water."

Ruby slides off the stool, stepping around Beth to where she's lined all of the various dishes, pots, and pans she's planning to use up on the counter. 

Grabbing the bowl, Ruby turns around and sees Annie's back on her phone—no doubt filling Mick in on the latest developments, the two of them are the most gossipy bitches Ruby's ever met, and she's been to PTA meetings—and gently bumps her hip to Beth's. 

"You good?" She asks again, soft, just between the two of them. 

"I  _ like _ him, Ruby," Beth whispers, swallowing hard before looking at her. "Are you mad at me?"

Ruby sighs, putting the bowl down to wrap her arms around Beth. "Don't be stupid."

Beth leans in, laughing a little into Ruby's shoulder as she sags against her. "Hate you."

Ruby hums, squeezing harder. "Hate your face."

"Why are we hugging?" Annie pipes up. She puts her phone down and slides off her own stool, coming around the island towards them. "I want in! I—"

She breaks off when Beth's phone buzzes on the counter, glancing at it. "Uh oh, Deansie's calling."

And just like that, Beth's back to tense as hell.

—————

Ruby doesn't hear anything else about it that night. Dean called because Judith wanted to push back when she served her dinner, which sent Beth into a full-on crisis trying to adjust The Schedule. 

By the time Ruby left, Beth was so stressed out from readjusting the timing, Ruby hadn't wanted to pile on by asking if she was going to go through with it. She grudgingly checks in with Annie and Mick later that night—and can practically hear Annie's triumphant  _ who's the gossipy bitch now _ from across town—but they're in the dark too. Apparently, Beth's taken to ignoring Annie's texts entirely. 

When the Hills arrive at the house the next day, Beth's in full Beth. She's flitting from room to room, checking on the turkey, adjusting the place settings, tweaking the decorative arrangement of fruit and vegetables spilling out of the honest to God cornucopia she's using as a centerpiece. Ruby can barely get her to hold still long enough to take a deep breath, let alone ask her anything of substance.

Ruby finally gets Stan to herd all of the kids outside and corners Beth in the kitchen.

"So…" Ruby doesn't bother asking the full question, just loads it into the single word and watches Beth's blush bloom.

"They're having dinner over at Rhea's," she says, arranging slices of cheese and crackers into a decorative spiral pattern on a platter. "But Rio's going to come by after."

A bolt of pure adrenaline zings through Ruby's whole body, knotting up every one of her muscles. She opens her mouth, not entirely sure what she's going to say to that, hoping it'll be passably encouraging, but the front door bangs open before she has to figure it out.

"Parallel parking shouldn't take five tries when there's no one else parked on the street," Annie yells over her shoulder as she storms in, a sheepish Ben and apologetic Nancy in tow behind her. 

"I swear to god, it's a miracle Gregg got his license in the first place," she says, unceremoniously clearing a space on the counter to dump two tote bags of what looks like empty Tupperware on it. "What'd I miss?"

After that, it's not that Ruby forgets he's coming, but between the kids, the meal, the noise, and the wine, she finds herself relaxed enough that it's a jolt when she looks up and sees Rio leaned up against the cased opening between the den and dining room. 

No one else has noticed him yet—the man moves like a damn cat, and why he can't knock on a door like a normal person Ruby will never know—and he doesn't seem to realize Ruby has. He's focused entirely on Beth, no surprise there, Ruby's spent three years now ceasing to exist when they're in each other's orbit. 

What makes her breath catch and fingers curl around the napkin in her lap is the  _ way _ he's looking at Beth.

Ruby's seen him look at Beth a lot of different ways: curiosity, exasperation, amusement, thinly veiled rage, but she's never once seen him look like this. There's a warmth in his eyes, a tiny, almost fond smile playing around the edges of his mouth that's utterly foreign to her. He's looking at her like he likes her just as much as Ruby's starting to realize Beth likes him.

Something that's been coiled tight in Ruby's chest since yesterday afternoon relaxes the tiniest bit.

She flicks a glance to Beth, about to nudge her, but there's no need because in the same moment Beth looks over, and Ruby's breath catches because when Beth sees him, she lights up.

Ruby's abruptly reminded of that night a few years ago, when she and Beth sat outside that hotel, and Beth told Ruby she'd never looked at Dean the way Ruby looks at Stan. 

It's not that Beth's looking at Rio that way, but in the smile that flashes across her face and the way his face softens in response, Ruby sees a future where they might have their own version of it, and Ruby doesn't know how she feels about that. 

Then Jane catches sight of him and demands to know where Marcus is, and the moment snaps, the two of them sliding their masks back into place. 

Ruby tenses when Beth introduces him to Sara and Harry, but beyond Sara's smirk when Beth calls him her friend—and Ruby really needs to do something about her sass, it's out of control—they all take each other in stride. 

"Your tattoo is  _ cool," _ Harry declares, eyes wide.

"No, it's not," Stan says, and any of the tension Ruby'd let go of throughout dinner is back all at once. 

She'd warned Stan ahead of time that Beth's  _ special friend _ was coming to dinner, he'd known who that was for a while now, they didn't keep secrets anymore, but it's one thing to know theoretically and another to eat pie with the person who'd been the focus of an FBI task force he'd been on.

"Sorry, man," he says, extending a hand to Rio to shake. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow and find out he's gotten into the markers and drawn all over himself."

"Nah, it's good," Rio says with an easy laugh, and Ruby's pretty sure the buzzing in her ear is part of her brain short-circuiting and shutting down. "I tell mine the same thing."

Ruby glances at Beth and—God, she is straight up  _ beaming. _

Beth was obviously downplaying how many times he's been to their house because her kids interact with him like he's old news. He knows about Emma's upcoming dance recital, the math test Kenny's been struggling with, has some story for Jane that Marcus asked him to pass along. Even Danny, by far the shiest of Beth's kids, seems comfortable with him. 

Ruby's eyebrows have taken up permanent residence at her hairline, and Annie's have done the same. More than once, the two of them have silently promised each other that Beth is going to have some explaining to do later.

He doesn't seem thrown at all by the noisy group, which—Ruby doesn't know what she was expecting. She's never seen him appear to be anything other than in his element, so she doesn't know why she thought this would be any different. 

It's all so...normal. Too normal, the way Rio seamlessly fits right in. Ruby's spent so much of the time she's known him being terrified of him, of him intentionally trying to be terrifying, that to see him acting like a… a real person feels like a rug's been pulled out from under her.

Ruby blames that not knowing what way is up feeling—along with the wine she's been drinking all night—for what comes next.

She's alone in the kitchen scraping and stacking dishes when she Rio slips out through the mudroom on his phone. Before she can think about what she's doing and whether it's a good idea, she finds herself following out the door. 

"A'ight, yeah, tomorrow," he says into the phone, hanging up as she steps out onto the patio.

"Crime doesn't take holidays off?" Ruby asks, immensely gratified when he spins around, startled. 

"Marcus is stayin' at his mom's tonight," he says, raising an eyebrow that feels like a rebuke at her assumption, which is ridiculous when he's the one sneaking out into the backyard to take phone calls. What is anyone supposed to think that's about? Sure, the house is noisy as hell with all those kids in it, but that's beside the point. 

"At Rhea's," she says, mostly to remind him she knows stuff about him, to try and put him off balance for a change.

Sure enough, something complicated flickers across his face. Something that looks like surprise, but also includes something that has his lips flattening out into a thin line for a flash—Ruby wonders if he and Beth have ever hashed out Beth making friends with Rhea and all of that lunacy. Whatever it is, it passes but leaves him looking uncomfortable in a way Ruby's never seen him look, and it sits awkwardly on him. But then he rolls his shoulders a little, features smoothing back into neutral, and he nods. 

"You need somethin'?" 

The question comes out slow and almost cautious. If Ruby didn't know any better, she'd say he was wary of her, which is ridiculous given which of the two of them regularly carries a gun.

Oh God, he doesn't have one on him right now, does he?

"Yeah," she says, her voice wobbling just a touch, the memory of Lucy looming large in her mind. 

But then she remembers the soft way Beth whispered she  _ liked _ him, the way Beth's kids seem to know him, the way he'd looked at Beth when he thought no one was watching. 

Ruby clears her throat, and squares her shoulders, walking over to the patio table and taking a seat. 

"Yeah, I do," she says, steady this time, and gestures at the seat across from her.

He doesn't move, and Ruby can't exactly say she's surprised, she doesn't know how she expected this to go, it's not like she planned it, she's going on pure instinct here. So, when he comes over and sits down in the chair she indicated, propping his chin in his hand, she nearly falls out of hers.

"What's the problem?" he asks when she doesn't say anything for a minute and a part of her bristles because he says it so resigned. Like he knows what's coming, like he knows  _ her _ , and that's just—no. 

But, God, where does she even start?

There's the part where he's a criminal, and look, she knows they are too, they've been doing this for too long for her to have any kind of denial to hide behind. But he's like, a criminal with a capital C. 

He's got a whole operation, an  _ international _ operation, and while that kind of thing might make Beth hot, it leaves Ruby cold. He's the kind of criminal where it's not just cash and pills, it's guns and bodies. And yeah, okay, maybe they've had to deal with those too, but it's been his fault, and it hasn't been with the kind of ease and experience he does—she will never, ever forget how calm he was that night with the van—because they're not like him, they're  _ not. _

If that wasn't enough, there's the way Beth looks at him. She's always looked at him a little bit longer, a little bit more intensely than she should, and maybe it's Ruby's fault for keeping her peace, for not saying anything. But what was she supposed to do? By the time she realized she needed to say anything, it was already too late. 

Now when Beth looks at him, there are  _ feelings,  _ and that means he can  _ hurt _ her in a whole different way than he was able to before. In a way Ruby realizes she never had to worry about with Dean. Which is absolutely terrifying in and of itself because Dean had hurt Beth really, really badly, and that was after he'd made vows to her, that he would stay, that she could lean on him, promises Ruby highly doubts Rio ever has done or will do.

But that isn't the whole of it. When Ruby really scrapes down to the bedrock of her  _ problem _ as he called it—like it's some trivial, solvable thing—there's the part of her that absolutely cannot wrap her head around the fact that Beth  _ does _ feel that way, even though he  _ has _ done those things, and  _ is _ the person he is. 

If she's entirely honest with herself, underneath everything else, her biggest sticking point is this: he's made her realize there's this whole other side to her best friend that Ruby never even knew was there. Ruby doesn't know if she never knew because she'd never looked, or because Beth had hidden it from her, and Ruby also doesn't know which is worse, she just knows it's easier to blame him for it.

"You murdered that little girl," is what she eventually says because of all of it, it's the easiest to say out loud, and it's not like it isn't hugely significant. 

At least he has the grace to nod, to not try to hide behind a technicality or pass it off, or excuse it. He owns it, and while he isn't ashamed, he isn't proud of it either, and she can see from the stern, serious lines of his face it isn't something he takes lightly, so there's that. 

"Where's that leave us, then?"

"I don't know," she tells him, because she doesn't, really. Apparently, he's going to be a part of her life, for good or ill, and she's going to go with it for Beth's sake but beyond that? At the very least, it'll take time. 

He raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything, only shifts his jaw around and nods again.

Maybe it's the fact that he's not going to try to talk her around, that he accepts her not knowing and her judgment. That he's willing to sit here with her anyway, patient while she figures out what she needs to get out of her system. Whatever it is, his silence unlocks something, and before Ruby even knows what she's planning to say, the words come pouring out of her.

"Did Beth ever tell you how we met?" she asks but doesn't give him a chance to answer—sees him shaking his head anyway—before she's barreling on. 

"She was trying to drive her mom's car, no idea how to do it. It was one of those big ass, old school Cadillacs, about as long as a city block, and the power steering was out so she could barely control it, going up on the curb, knocking over trash cans. She's never let not knowing how to do something stop her from jumping in headfirst, no matter how much of a mess it might make."

He laughs at that, but it's a different kind of laugh than Ruby's ever heard from him before. It's the kind of laugh that goes with that soft look, the kind of laugh you do when you  _ like _ someone. Ruby blinks, the same something from earlier unwinding a little bit more. 

"My um," Ruby looks away, swallowing hard and continuing before she can talk herself out of saying what comes next. "My dad died, like, barely more than a week after that. I hardly knew Beth at that point, but as soon as she heard, she came straight over to my house, Annie in tow, and sat with me. For days. She barely left my side, and if she had to, she'd bring me with her whenever she could, making sure I was never alone unless I wanted to be."

When she looks back, Rio's watching her, something sympathetic lurking around the corners of his eyes, and that' s—Ruby doesn't know what to do with that. It makes him look like a whole other person, someone who doesn't scare the ever-living shit out of her, someone she could maybe be friendly with in a different life. 

She wonders if this is part of what Beth sees.

"What I'm trying to say is," Ruby says, pushing aside her surprise. "Beth's been barreling into trouble without a thought for herself for as long as I've known her."

He huffs like he's extremely aware, and Ruby appreciates that he seems to like it about as much as she does.

Ruby takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "The two of them may have some rosy-tinted idea of who you are and what you do, but I don't. My husband used to be a cop—" 

He jerks a little, surprised, and Ruby hopes to God she hasn't made a mess for Beth. "I know all about people like you. I know Lucy was just the tip of the iceberg."

Whatever warmth Ruby'd seen in Rio's face falls away, leaving it blank. He's staring at her with a predator's intensity, and she feels goosebumps prickling along her arms even as a part of her is weirdly grateful to be back on familiar ground. 

"She's my ride or die, and if it were up to me, I'd keep her far away from you. I know she's got her whole bad bitch act down pat these days, but underneath that, she's still that same girl who'll spend day after day sleeping on a near stranger's floor because she doesn't want them to be grieving and alone. And if you think for one minute, I'm going to let  _ you _ hurt  _ her? _ Try it, and you'll find out you're not the only one that can be scary as hell, you got that?"

Rio doesn't say anything for a long moment, only watches her, chin still in hand, that empty, terrifying mask still firmly in place. Ruby does her best to keep her back straight, to hold his gaze without blinking, to not let him see how scared she is. How much she wishes she'd taken a minute to think of a more diplomatic way to say all of that instead of, oh  _ God, _ reminding him he's a murderer, and she knows it not once but  _ twice _ . And that's on top of the not laundry list of additional dirt he knows she's got on him.

The silence stretches between them, so complete, Ruby can hear the sounds of the kids laughing inside the house, a neighbor taking their trash out a house or two down, a car engine starting up one street over. A cold, nearly winter breeze rustles the few remaining leaves clinging to the branches above them and Ruby shivers, wishing she hadn't left her coat inside. 

Right when Ruby's sure she's going to break first, he huffs and sits back, glancing over at the light spilling out the kitchen window, his expression thawing back into something more lifelike, more like the person he was inside. Ruby's jaw drops before she can stop it—did she just...she thinks she just won something—and even though she snaps it shut immediately, from the amused twitch of his lip when he turns back to her, she's pretty sure he caught it out.

"You're a good friend," he says, and that' s—Ruby doesn't know what she was expecting, exactly, but it was absolutely, definitely not that. 

"Damn right," she says once she recovers.

A silence falls between them again, but this time it feels almost comfortable. Not quite, Ruby isn't anywhere near ready to go that far. It's not like she can just get over everything she knows he's done, has seen him do. But like the feeling she got when she saw the two of them see each other, she can see a future where she thinks maybe she can pretend it's not there. For Beth's sake. 

"So you guys are doing holidays now?" she asks, because...because he keeps surprising her, and maybe she can admit there's more to him than she'd seen before. And maybe she still thinks this is probably a horrible idea, but she's always going to want to do whatever she can to help Beth be happy, and maybe this thing with them could do that.

He sucks on his teeth, and Ruby doesn't think she's ever been able to read him as clearly as she can right now. The war between the need for privacy and recognition that this—Ruby making small talk, Annie inside swearing up a blue streak, kids running off their sugar in circles through the house—is a part of the Beth package plays out plain as day across his face. She's genuinely curious to know which way he's going to jump, surprised to find she sort of hopes, thinks even, that he'll bite.

"Guess so," he says eventually, and Ruby can't help the grin that flashes across her face.

"Well, you got a low bar for Christmas," she says, feeling generous. "One year? Dean actually gave her a pile of Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons.

Honestly, his horror and disgust is almost worth the stress of this whole conversation, and Ruby's still laughing when Beth steps out onto the patio.

"You guys okay?" 

Beth's obviously trying to pretend she's casually checking in, a good hostess doing her job. Like Ruby can't hear the anticipation in the almost breathless inflection of the last word, see it in the trembling curve of her smile.

Ruby glances at Rio, but he's looking at her, the echo of Beth's question in the arch of an eyebrow.

"We're good," Ruby says, amazed to find she actually thinks she means it.


	5. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's weird, leaving the house for good. 
> 
> Dean expected more fanfare, honestly, even though he's been moving his stuff out slowly over the past few weeks. Which is stupid, he knows. Beth and the kids aren’t even home. She’d taken them to the zoo or something, he can’t keep track, she’d come up with a whole roster of activities to keep them out of the house whenever Dean was scheduled to come over and pack a box or two.
> 
> The two of them had talked about it a few weeks ago, as the divorce was finalizing. They’d agreed that a slow, gradual approach was better for the kids. It'd give them a chance to get used to the idea that Dean was really leaving this time. 
> 
> It'd been a hard conversation when they'd finally sat down to figure it all out. 
> 
> Well. For him, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and lo, the end is nigh! putting my shout outs at the end this time like proper credits.

**June**

It's weird, leaving the house for good. 

Dean expected more fanfare, honestly, even though he's been moving his stuff out slowly over the past few weeks. Which is stupid, he knows. Beth and the kids aren’t even home. She’d taken them to the zoo or something, he can’t keep track, she’d come up with a whole roster of activities to keep them out of the house whenever Dean was scheduled to come over and pack a box or two.

The two of them had talked about it a few weeks ago, as the divorce was finalizing. They’d agreed that a slow, gradual approach was better for the kids. It'd give them a chance to get used to the idea that Dean was really leaving this time. 

It'd been a hard conversation when they'd finally sat down to figure it all out. 

Well. For him, at least. 

Beth was harder to read. Dean figured she had to feel _something_ about the dissolution of _twenty-three_ years of marriage. But the minute Dean’d nodded, agreeing to the concept of a schedule, Beth emailed him an invite to a shared calendar filled with staggered blocks tagged with siren red flags telling him when he needed to be at the house packing.

Then, if that wasn't enough to show she was serious, she'd told him anything left after the last block was going in the trash.

Every time a notification pops up, he remembers the straight line of her shoulders, the firm set of her mouth, and his own shoulders hunch like he's right back in the kitchen, the weight of her decision pressing down on him and making it hard to breathe.

The worst part is, she hadn't even been mad. Mad, Dean could handle; he'd weathered that storm often enough, especially in the past few years. Instead, she'd been uncompromising. Unmovable. She'd made her decision, and it was final.

It's the finality that kills him, the way she seemed utterly uninterested in making things work. Won't even entertain the idea every time Dean's tried bringing it up ever since she'd demanded Dean sign and file the divorce papers back at Thanksgiving. 

And Dean knows why. 

Dean's hand clench, digging divots into the box he's carrying out to the car.

It's not that Dean had seen any hint of...of _him._

Not directly anyway. But Dean knew what was behind all of this. How he'd wormed his way in and _seduced_ Beth with his...his _smirking_ and—and _tattoos._ Stolen her, really. All sexy danger and illicit thrill, two things Dean can’t exactly claim apply to him.

_I just really like having sex with him._

It was more than that, obviously. Dean's always known that even if Beth didn't want to admit it. Good sex isn't enough to wreck a whole life. 

He would know. 

But that guy, Dean'll give him credit, he's effective. He'd gotten Beth so turned around it's like all she can see is him and all of his... _stuff_. 

It's a nightmare Dean can't wake up from. Ever since the guy first showed up, things have been spiraling further and further out of Dean's control, getting worse and more surreal every step of the way, and now he's here: carrying one final box out of the house where he'd raised his family. A house where he's no longer welcome. 

The first time Beth kicked him out—after she found out about Amber—it'd all happened so fast, it hadn't really felt like something real. Something lasting. It was kind of like the affair—well, okay, affairs—themselves. They didn’t _mean_ anything, not really. It had to be obvious the women didn’t matter to him, right? Not like Beth, not like his _family._ Honestly, he’d gotten so used to thinking of them as like, just a thing that happened, there’s a part of him that was kind of surprised Beth got as mad as she did, and he figured it was only a matter of time until she came around and saw things the way he did. 

It'd turned out he'd been right, so it's like his dad had always said: you gotta trust your instincts. Sure, he'd been talking about locking down sales and recognizing that magic moment when the customer's right on the edge and the exact right word will tip them over, but like most of his life lessons, it’s applicable across the board.

This time, though—this time felt different. 

Dean squeezes the box, the _last_ box, into the backseat and stops, bracing one arm on the roof of the car, another on the open door and turns, studying the house.

It's a pretty day, all blue skies and balmy weather. That clem—cleman—the flowery vine thing Beth planted not long after they'd moved in's still in bloom. Over the years it’s exploded into a wildly overgrown canopy wrapping around the front door, giving the whole house a kind of storybook vibe that’d always made Dean feel warm inside. The delicate star-shaped flowers nestled in green leaves, the same soft white as the clapboard siding, glow in the early summer sunshine. A barely-there breeze picks up, carrying the faintest trace of vanilla all the way over to Dean in the driveway.

A lump forms in his throat and he swallows hard, trying to force it back. It’s just a house now. Not _his_ house—not his _home—_ anymore. 

He'll never forget bringing his dad over when they first bought it—no, before they'd all the way bought it. The realtor had been a friend of his dad's, and after the offer was accepted, he'd gotten the keys for an afternoon so Dean could do a walkthrough.

Beth was supposed to come with him—it'd been a big deal for her, the two of them showing off the house for the first time to his parents, thanking them for all their help—but something had come up, Dean can't remember what anymore. Something with Annie? Maybe her mom? She'd still been around at the time, but getting pretty sick. Either way, Beth hadn't been able to make it, and Dean's mom assured her it’d be fine, they’d do a walkthrough some other time.

”Just us girls,” she’d said, wrapping an arm around Beth’s shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. Beth had smiled but it’d looked more like a grimace and Dean hadn’t known what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t like, reschedule just for her, it wasn’t even their house yet.

And, truth be told, Dean’d been kind of secretly glad it worked out that way. It’d been nice, having that time alone with his dad. 

Dean will never forget that day and how much his dad loved the house, how proud he'd been, glad he was that he could help set Dean on his path. How his eyes had gone glassy and voice gruff when Dean showed him all the bedrooms and told him how someday he planned to name his son after his dad’s father.

His dad loved being a grandpa—loved it more openly than Dean remembers him loving anything before—and Dean was so, so grateful he’d got a few years with Ken and Danny before he’d passed.

But the moment that’s been surfacing more and more as Dean slowly empties himself from the house, was after they'd walked through, and they'd gone out in the yard. The previous owners had a whole different patio set up, but the picnic table was still there and he’d sat side by side with his dad, taking a moment to bask in the setting sun, the yard lush and green and thriving around them. Dean's dad had clasped him on the shoulder, giving it a little shake. He hadn't been a man for physical affection—something Dean understood, but still made a point to rectify with his own kids—so gestures like that meant everything.

"It's a good house," he'd said. "Good bones. Good place to build a family."

Dean remembers the glow he'd felt, bathing in the warmth of his dad's approval. He'd already asked and been granted his great-grandma's ring at that point. He'd been planning on proposing to Beth as soon as the house was all the way theirs. He had a grand vision of him down on one knee in that big, empty den, how Beth would cry—

"That girl of yours," his dad had continued. "She's a tough nut to crack, I can tell."

Dean had laughed. Even back then, when things still seemed so simple, there were times he'd look at Beth and see a stranger. Every now and then, he'd catch her with Ruby, bright and open, something wild and untamed in her happiness she never set free around him. 

It'd made him uncomfortable, that there were parts of herself she kept secret from him—it made those glimpses feel somehow illicit. Enticing, but also somehow profane. 

It was unsettling, the way he didn't see any hint of the sweet, quiet girl he'd fallen for. That when she came to him as the girl he knew, he saw no trace of the other part. That she was able to bury a part of herself so completely it was like she’d never been there at all.

He'd asked his mom about it one time, and she'd told him not to worry about it. She said women always kept a different side of them in reserve for their girlfriends. That there was nothing wrong with that; if anything, that's how it should be. 

_Every woman needs an outlet,_ she'd said. 

"Your mother's like that," his dad had added, like he could somehow tell what Dean was thinking. "You gotta be patient with them, give 'em room. A woman like that's a skittish customer. You want to get that sale? Keep your eyes on the prize. You gotta coax 'em into it, show 'em all the ways you're gonna solve their problems, all they gotta do is sign on the line. You go at her head-on, and she'll balk, but if you're patient? You'll close the deal." 

Back then, with the future stretched out before him, Dean nodded, some of his anxiety alleviated. He was building a whole life for them, for their future family. He was gonna solve _all_ her problems. 

"The important thing is that you don't quit," his dad had said. "Because quitting—"

"Is for losers," Dean had finished. He knew the words by heart, a constant refrain ever since he was a kid. 

His dad laughed and gave Dean's shoulder one more shake, then a pat and let go. 

Back in the present, Dean jerks himself out of the memory, blinking a little. He slams the car door shut, wincing as he hears the box crunch. He fishes his keys out of his pocket as he makes his way around to the driver's side. 

At least his dad isn't around to see him now. 

———

**January**

"I think someone's _fucking_ in the bathroom."

Haley punctuates the statement by dropping her purse back on the tiny bar table, the tassel on the zipper flopping into Dean's drink. 

It's one of those shapeless sack things that Beth had always used to cart around what seemed like everything under the sun. Judging from the way it seems to catch wind every time Haley waves it around, he doubts she’s got much more in there than the phone she’s constantly checking and probably her keys.

_Or maybe some candy. Seeing as she's twelve._

Dean shakes his head, trying to clear the thought that's been popping up with increasing frequency throughout the night, in a voice that's started sounding unnervingly like Beth. He can perfectly imagine how she’d look saying it, too: arms crossed, lips pursed, that unimpressed head tilt she does when someone says something stupid in front of her, and she's too annoyed to hide it. He can see it so clearly it's almost like she's here in the bar with him. 

It's not like that's a problem he usually has—had. He's always been able to sort of like, draw a line between Beth and...and everyone else. She lives in one part of his head and, whenever he needed to, he'd just kind of, like, close a door. 

He blames the bar. It's the same one he and Beth had gone to all those years ago. 

He’d had a hard time figuring out where to take Haley for their date—not that he’d call it that to her face. He’d made the mistake of dropping the d-word when they’d been texting about it and there’d been a long pause before she responded telling him that wasn’t what she was looking for. Which didn't even make any sense considering they were literally messaging each other through a _dating_ app. 

And didn't _that_ make Dean feel old? But Kenny, of all people, had been weirdly insistent it was the only way he'd get a girlfriend. A little insulting, maybe, but Dean figures kids these days don't know how to do anything without an app. And anyway, it was cute. The kids got really excited about the whole thing, helped him pick out pictures for his profile and everything.

Too bad it's gone entirely downhill from there. 

He’s hit it off with a bunch of different women through the thing, but it’s like once he actually meets up with any of them, stuff just goes...wrong. 

Some of it was like, random freak incidents: there was the one woman who got a call from her roommate and had to leave halfway through; another woman didn’t mention she had cats and Dean’s eyes had swollen up so bad he almost couldn’t get himself home; one woman talked in this breathy sort of baby voice that unsettled Dean in a way he can’t totally explain, but he’d ended up cutting the date short to get away from her. And then there was the woman who showed up wearing a floral blouse Dean is nearly positive Beth owns an exact copy of and Dean spent the whole night drowning in memories.

And that’s not even getting into the handful of dates like this one with Haley which are just _bad,_ there’s no other way to say it.

When Dean picked her up, the first thing she'd said was his pictures made him look younger—which is totally unfair, his picture isn’t _that_ old, only like...five years. Maybe six. Most of his pictures are with Beth or the kids, so it’s not like he has a lot to work with. 

Anyway, the restaurant he’d picked—the same one he’d taken Beth to for their eighteenth anniversary, it was super fancy and right down by the water; she’d loved it—hadn't impressed Haley at all, either. He'd pointed out that it'd won Best Romantic Dinner six years running in the Metro Times' Best of Detroit, and she snorted and said, _sure, if you're my parents._

Truthfully, Dean's not really sure why she'd even agreed to match with him in the first place. Their profiles were polar opposites. She didn’t want kids, he was a father of four. Kenny and Danny’d listed a whole bunch of superhero movies under his interests, she had stuff like clubbing and _brunch with the babes_. He’d made her laugh a bunch, though, when they started messaging, and Dean figured that was a good sign. 

When they’d started talking seriously about meeting up, he’d asked Eric for tips, figuring he shouldn’t, like, only get dating advice from his kids. At first Eric tried to brush him off with an unhelpful _oh no, I don't do straight nonsense,_ but he’d finally caved and suggested Dean try sweeping her off her feet since he wasn’t, as Eric put it, going to come up with anything cool.

Even though dinner was awkward, Dean had kind of been thinking—hoping—they'd go back to one of their places to cap things off. But when Haley turned to him and asked _what next?_ she'd said it in a tone that didn't make him think that was on the table just yet, so he'd scrambled, trying to come up with something, _anything,_ that might appeal to her, make him seem cool.

So they ended up here: in a crowded, noisy dive bar Dean associates with his ex-wife and that burgundy, polka-dotted dress. A memory he can't even enjoy anymore because now it makes him think of her _other_ polka-dotted dress and how she’d worn that to—well.

"Wait, really?" Dean drags himself back to the present, fishing the trailing suede fringe out of his scotch, wrinkling his nose at the thought of doing it in a _public bathroom_. It’s so...anyone could _catch_ you.

Haley doesn't notice—his distraction or that part of her purse landed in his drink—she's pulled out her phone and is trying to use it as a mirror to refresh her lipstick. So she's got two things in her bag, anyway. 

"Yep," she says when she finishes, drawing out the word and popping the _p_ in a way that reminds Dean a little too much of Annie. The bleach blonde curls and bright red lipstick don't help either, now that he's made the connection. 

"How do you...how do you know?" he asks, shifting his weight, trying to find a comfortable spot on the stool. 

"Door's locked and has been for a minute," Haley says, tossing the phone and lipstick back in her bag. "And when I put my ear to it, I could hear _stuff."_

"What stuff?" 

He asks it mostly just to continue the conversation, but judging from how her eyes go wide and her expression disdainful, Haley obviously takes it as him not knowing what kind of _stuff_ he’d hear if two people were going at it in a bar bathroom. 

"Let's just say there's a woman in there having a _really_ good time." 

_Unlike me_ hangs in the air as clear and present as if Haley had said it aloud. She looks away as she finishes her drink.

Dean sighs and looks around for a waitress, any waitress, to signal for another martini for Haley. He's still nursing his, trying to stay in the okay-to-drive zone, but figures another round will maybe improve things for her.

There's a girl in a tight white t-shirt carrying a drink tray coming towards him, and he lifts a finger, but she ignores him.

"Excuse me," he says, as she gets close enough to hear him over the crowd. 

She stops and looks at him, an annoyed arch to her eyebrow, but before Dean can say anything, the bathroom door—in perfect view over her shoulder—opens, and he swears Beth walks out.

For a wild moment, Dean thinks he's progressed from hearing her to actually _seeing_ her, but when he blinks and shakes his head, she's still there. 

It takes a second to register, but then Beth smooths down her skirt—unusual in and of itself, Beth only wears dresses on special occasions—flushed bright enough that Dean can see it clearly, even in the dim room, and his jaw drops as he connects the dots.

Beth is coming _out_ of the bathroom, and Haley said—She heard— 

"Can we get the check?"

Dean dimly registers Haley's question, but he barely hears it. It's like all the sounds in the bar have fallen far, far away, overpowered by the blood rushing like a raging river in his ears. 

Because now someone's coming out of the bathroom behind Beth, and even though his face is in shadow, Dean knows that lanky, _snakey_ silhouette better than he cares to admit. 

Sure enough, _he_ steps out into the light, gaze sweeping across the bar, and Dean nearly hurls himself off his chair, trying to duck out of view. 

The last thing he wants is for either of them to see him. 

Not when they just—When they were—

It feels like the floor's dropped out from underneath him, and he's in freefall; there isn't anything to grab on to that'll make this make sense.

It's not like—Look, Dean knew there'd been something going on with them. Not that Beth bothered to tell him, to give him the cold comfort of getting to say he knew it. But he didn’t think it would like, _last._

Eric was the one that dropped that grenade. He came into work one morning a couple months ago and handed off a latte with a casual _ran into your ex and some guy over at that coffee shop on Grand River._ Dean nearly dumped his coffee all over himself, his hand involuntarily spasming and crushing the cup because the minute Eric said _some guy,_ Dean had _known._

Annie's always said if Dean was any less perceptive, he'd basically be a brick—like she's one to talk, if there's one silver lining to the divorce, it's not having to make nice with her—but he picked up on stuff, he wasn't a complete idiot.

Even if Eric hadn’t seen them, though, it would've been impossible to miss. Not long after that, the kids were dropping references here and there. Kenny's math test came back with a B—a notable improvement; Dean's the first to admit the kid just doesn't have a head for numbers—turns out mom's _friend_ Mr. Rio taught him a trick for keeping the equations straight. Jane's suddenly calling all of her stuffed animals _darlin'_ in a low, growling drawl, which, well. 

Dean doesn't have to ask where that one came from. He sometimes still hears it in his nightmares, the ones where he jerks awake, sweaty and chest aching and gasping for air.

It's kind of similar to how he feels now, actually, but this is way worse because that's just a memory and this is actually happening. Right now. Right in front of his eyes. 

Beth, his _wife_ —ex-wife, _whatever_ —the _mother_ of his _children_ had _sex_ in a _public restroom_ with—with—with that _fucking guy._

Dean looks back over; he can't help himself. It's like seeing a trainwreck or a car accident. He logically knows he needs to stop, but something inside him has taken over the controls. He has no say in the way he can't tear his eyes away. He has no input on the breadth of detail his mind catalogs. 

The guy drops a hand on Beth's shoulder, and she smiles up at him like they've got a secret. He slides past her, trailing his hand down her arm, and around behind the bar, rapping his knuckles on the bar top. The bartender's there so fast it's like he's been summoned from on high, handing over two coats. 

Dean frowns. The guy ducks down like he’s looking at something under the bar, but the bartender doesn’t say anything, just hands one of the coats over to Beth who smiles graciously, her blush deepening even further.

The guy pops up, setting down a black duffle and pulling on his own coat, talking to the bartender like he knows him. Weirder still, the bartender’s listening and nodding, looking up at him like he’s some kind of authority and he’s taking instruction, which—wait.

No.

It's not—Is this _his_ bar? 

Dean frantically tries to call up everything Beth said about it that night. It was so long ago, though, and it's not like it had been all that special—though if he'd known it was gonna be one of their last date nights, maybe he would've...well. Remembered it more clearly, for one.

Things had been going really well, he recalls, details slowly emerging as he concentrates. Before the bar they’d gone to that restaurant Tim at the dealership recommended, saying his wife _really_ liked it, if Dean caught his drift. Beth had been kind of drunk, a little dancey. There'd been a minute there where Dean really thought they might actually break their streak—or, non-streak he supposes is more accurate. But when he'd suggested leaving the kids at his mom's for the night and heading home, she'd said no. Kind of sharp. Definitive, he thinks, maybe. She'd said…

_I know a place._

She hadn't said how. But Dean asked her, didn't he? He had, he knows it, because this place is so completely _not_ Beth, he'd been curious. He'd assumed she'd heard about it from Annie, but now that he's thinking about it, what _had_ she said? She'd said _a friend,_ but before he could ask which, she'd grabbed her purse and then went to the—

No.

_No._

There's not—there's no way. That guy hadn’t even _been_ there that night. He thinks. But Beth wouldn't. She _couldn't._

"Dean!"

Dean jerks. Haley's staring at him, apparently having been trying to get his attention for some time, judging from her expression. Though, whatever she sees on his own face is enough that her scowl lessens, giving way to confusion.

"Are you okay? You look like someone just shit in your drink."

"Yeah, I just, uh…" Dean trails off. He has no idea how to finish that sentence. What's he going to tell her? Those people you heard _doing it_ in the bathroom were my _wife_ and her...her…

God, how had he even gotten her to _do_ that? Yeah, she said she liked having sex with him, but this was like, a whole other thing. He must have one hell of a move because Beth barely liked having _normal_ sex.

Well, except for that phase—that glorious, golden phase Dean _definitely_ did not appreciate enough—when they thought _he_ was dead. Dean really thought things were getting better. Beth stopped looking at him with that blank, pleasant but vaguely checked out look she'd had ever since she'd—well. Ever since she had Jane and the bad time that came after. For a minute there, they'd even been connecting again. Not just emotionally but, like, _sexually._

And Beth had been _into_ it. Hell, it had been _her_ idea. 

It would've had to have been. Dean had given up trying to make a move after his forty billionth rejection. A guy can only hear _no, not tonight_ so many times before it's a real bummer. 

The point is, the sex had gone from nothing to incredible and over the top—honestly like, a little too over the top? Beth wanted to do a lot of roleplay, it was weird—and, _God,_ maybe Dean should’ve just said what the hell and agreed to try for a baby. It’s not like it was all that likely of a possibility, right? They’re not _old,_ but it’s not like Beth is in her twenties anymore. Maybe if he’d said yes none of this would’ve happened.

But he didn’t, because at the time, Dean naively thought maybe everything with that _guy_ had been a phase that Beth needed to go through to see how good she had it, and he'd been right—she'd come back to him like he knew she would. 

And that made it okay, right? Like, it still sucked, and he still hated that guy, and he'd still _been shot_ and _nearly died,_ but if at the end of it he got his wife back, that was what was important. 

_Beth_ was what was important. 

"Dean!"

Haley's mad again, looking at him like _what the fuck,_ and Dean realizes he'd just kind of trailed off mid-sentence. 

He looks back, and Beth and the guy are leaving. She's weaving through the crowd, and he's doing that hand-on-the-small-of-her-back thing she’d always shaken off whenever Dean tried to do it. 

"Okay, well, I think we can both agree this has been a failed experiment."

Dean looks back, and now Haley's standing, bag on her shoulder and phone in hand, definitely, unarguably disgusted with him at this point. 

"Wait, no, I—"

"Don't bother," she says, swiping through her phone and not looking at him. "Even if I'd been having fun, I'm not wasting my time on a dude who openly ogles other people while out with me. I mean, in general it's pretty gross and rude, but whatever."

"I wasn't—"

She cuts him off with a look, eyebrows raised halfway to her hairline. 

"That's, uh,” Dean clears his throat. “That’s my ex-wife."

 _"Oh."_ Her eyebrows pull together, her pitying expression probably the nicest thing she’s aimed at him all night.

"No! I mean, it's not like that—" Dean struggles for an explanation that doesn't make him sound like a total loser. 

"You don't have to keep going, I get it.” She looks down, swiping and tapping at her phone, “Honestly, I'm not even too mad about it, I mostly signed up for the stupid app to make _my_ ex jealous, so it's not like I don't understand. Whatever. Have a nice life.”

Haley’s fingers still as she glances up and looks him up and down. “Or don't, I don't really care."

"No, that's not—Wait—"

She turns to leave and, desperate, Dean reaches out. He isn't going to grab her—the movement is more of a reflex born of his need to get her to stop, to _listen—_ but she jerks away like he actually made contact. She bounces off the person behind her and back into the table, sending his drink tumbling off of it. 

It's one of those horribly timed moments where everything conspires against him, and the glass hits the ground and shatters right in a lull between songs, and it feels like everyone in the bar turns and _looks._

Dean whips his head up towards the front, desperate and...and _something_ —he has no idea if it's terrified or anticipatory or some weird, roiling mix of both—at the idea of Beth and that _guy_ seeing him, wondering maybe what _he_ saw, but they're gone. Dean can see the door swinging shut, and it kicks that complicated something feeling up a notch knowing that he'd just missed maybe attracting their attention.

With a final, disgusted _tch,_ Haley spins on her heel and marches away. Dean should get up, should go after her, should try to salvage this because letting her go is the same thing as giving up, as _quitting,_ and Dean isn't a loser, he _isn't._

But at the same time, all he can see is that guy's _fucking hand._ The long fingers spread across Beth's back, wrapped around her shoulder. 

_Let's just say there's a woman in there having a_ really _good time._

And Beth smiling that secret smile up at him like she's _happy,_ like she's _satisfied?_ (And has she _ever_ smiled at Dean like that? Even back in the beginning, back when things were good?)

It hits him then, what that smile looks like. It reminds him of that other Beth, the one she never let him see. The one he never tried to.

That last thought’s a sucker punch, taking the air out of Dean’s lungs. The desperate, anxious energy zinging through him fizzles out, leaving him cold and hollow and strangely _heavy._ The thought of moving, of leaving, of going after Haley suddenly seems like the hardest thing in the entire world, and a part of him wants to just put his head in head arms and— and—

"Hey, man."

Dean looks up. There's some kid with a partially shaved head and suspenders hovering awkwardly, another guy with pink hair and a bar through his eyebrow behind him. A waitress, maybe the same waitress as before, Dean can't tell—doesn't even know where she came from and when crouched at his feet—sweeping up the broken glass into a dustpan with a brush. 

"Can we, uh. Are you sticking around, or can we get this table?"

Before Dean can answer, the waitress stands up, fishing a tray with his tab out of her apron pocket and dropping it on the table. 

"You can close out at the bar," she says before scooping up the dustpan and spinning on her heel, heading towards the back.

Dean looks back at the kids, wide-eyed, hesitant. He drops his gaze and notices they're holding hands. 

He sighs. He can't remember the last time someone held his hand. 

"Yeah, sure," he says, sliding off his stool, grabbing his coat—warm from him sitting on it—and the check. "All yours."

The bar's packed, and he has to go nearly to the bathroom himself before he can find a break in the crowd big enough to squeeze through. There are people everywhere: at the tables, at the bar, packed into the empty spaces waiting for their chance to snag a seat. How much money is that guy making off of this place? Does he even _need_ a criminal empire? 

That somehow makes it worse, the idea that if he'd just, like, _not_ been some kind of crime boss or whatever, Beth never would've met him, he wouldn't have had the opportunity to seduce her—

And that's another thing, why _her?_ Why _Beth?_ What did he even _see_ in her? Like, obviously Dean loves—loved? How is that even supposed to work after a divorce?—her, and she's pretty; he’s always thought that. Stacked, too. But she isn't, like, _sexy_ sexy. Her version's more... _mom_ sexy, and before that, kind of shy and sweet, which is again, great, but it's not like…

Look. Dean's got eyes; he gets what _Beth_ sees. Dean's not self-conscious or anything; he's in pretty good shape for his age, he does okay. But his thing is more charm and humor and making women laugh; it's a totally different playing field. He can't compete with tats and danger if that's what Beth was looking for. And like, he's not a total hypocrite. As much as it hurts to admit, it's not like he doesn't understand wanting something new after twenty-three years of marriage. 

But that guy is a different story. It can't just be about sex appeal for him. He could have _anyone._ So why _Beth?_

The best Dean could conclude is he is like, somehow really, _really_ into her. Probably even loves her. He honestly can't figure out any other explanation for he's—They're— 

It's the only thing that makes any of it make sense, even if Dean doesn't get the _why_ of it in the first place. 

Dean worms his way up to the bar, leaning across and signaling to a bartender who gives him a nod, but then turns away, so he sighs and settles in to wait.

Looking around, Dean takes in the young crowd—Dean’s pretty sure he’s the oldest person there, definitely the only person in a sport coat—the neon lights and pulsing bass, the scarred and battered bar top. 

It's just so...not _Beth._ Even though he's been here with her before, even though he'd literally _just_ seen her here, it strains his imagination past its outer limits picturing her here, with _him,_ fitting in, comfortable. 

Not only comfortable, but—

Dean can't remember the last time Beth wanted him enough to do it someplace other than their bed. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he's not sure she ever did. She was always so...so _proper_ about it. It was one of the reasons the whole do-me-over-the-sink incident had caught him so off guard—aside from the whole first time in _years_ aspect. And, _ha,_ look what that'd been about. 

_Who_ that'd been about. 

Maybe that’s what it is with the guy, maybe he like, brings out that other Beth, maybe that’s who he sees.

Like, _Jesus._ Dean can barely even wrap his head around Beth, _Bethie,_ agreeing to do...what would it even be _like?_ Would she have to wipe down a surface, minimize how much of it she touched? Would they do it against the sink? Would she watch in the mirror? Would _he?_ Would he get to see her face as she got close, her eyes open and watching the way she always did with Dean?

(He always secretly found it a little unnerving, honestly. It was like she was studying him, cataloging his actions and responding to them—)

"What can I get you?" The bartender materializes and Dean jerks, startled and uncomfortably aware of the, um.... _effects_ of his train of thought. The other man glances down the bar where someone's leaned over and waving, then back at Dean, pursing his lips in obvious impatience.

"I need to close my tab." Dean hands over the bill and his credit card, and the bartender spins on his heel and starts tapping quickly into the computer.

Dean shifts his grip on his coat, readjusting it more squarely in front of him.

"You're all good, man." 

The bartender slides a receipt over to Dean, and he starts to nod and then stops, frowning when he sees the total's been zeroed out.

"Hey, hold on!"

The bartender's already half turned away and looks back at him, eyebrow raised, the impatience from before back in full display.

"What's this?" Dean asks, pointing to the total.

"Drinks are on the house," the bartender says slowly like he's not sure what Dean isn't getting.

"Yeah, but _why?"_

"Owner took care of it." 

The guy hustles off before Dean can respond, leaving him to gaping at nothing, trying to come to terms with the fact that it _was_ the guy's bar and he _had_ seen Dean, had seen him after he'd—They'd— 

And then he'd... he'd _paid_ for Dean's _drinks?_

How is he even supposed to _take_ that? Is it some kind of _consolation prize?_ Is he rubbing Dean’s face in all of it? That he _saw_ him? That Dean saw _them?_

God, what if the check had come when Haley was still there? Dean’s cheeks heat; even just thinking about it’s embarrassing as hell.

He doesn't realize he's crumpled up the receipt in his fist, that he's started tapping it—okay, pounding it—against the bar until the woman seated next to where he's standing turns and glares. 

Dean yanks on his coat, taking a deep breath, then another. 

That guy will get his, in the end. He cares about Beth, Dean knows it—has known it—like he instinctively knows when a customer's ripe for that last little push that'll send them tumbling over the edge into a sale. 

And joke's on him, because in the end? This isn't Beth. She's clearly got something in her system she needs to get out. When she's done, she'll realize sex isn't enough, she'll get tired of the danger, the thrill will wear thin, _whatever._

And when she wants to leave his world, go back to her own, what's that guy going to do, follow her? 

Dean snorts at the thought while he threads through the crowd towards the door. Not hardly.

And that guy? Well. Dean pushes his way outside into the cold. He hopes he really is in love with her. Let him see what it's like to lose her.

All Dean has to do is wait.

———

**May**

_He’s_ at Emma's dance recital. 

Dean got there kind of late—not his fault, a business dinner ran over, and it's not like he could've just, like, walked out. He's been wooing this contractor for _months,_ and locking down the sale was gonna be a really, really big win when it happened. It'll almost definitely lead to more business, which is in all of their best interest in the long run. 

So, yeah, Dean's a little late. The echoing squeak as he skids around the corner into the lobby startles whatsherface—Beth's friend, her name sounds kind of like asthma, but he knows that isn't right—into nearly upending the cupcake tree she's arranging on the refreshments table. She glares, but Dean ignores it and slips into the auditorium, letting the door slam behind him. The first act has already started, and a couple of parents in the rows closest to the doors turn around and shush him, but Dean's too relieved to see Emma's grade isn't up yet to be all that bothered.

Dean squints. It looks like Jane’s class but she’s nowhere to be found among the pastel rainbow sea of ribbons, tulle and those little rose things they all pin to their hair. 

And that's a whole other thing. Since when is this just Emma's thing? When did Jane stop doing dance?

Dean had asked Beth about it when she'd first called to remind him the end-of-year recital was coming up—like he needed a reminder, he wasn't the one who missed a whole performance that one time—and the phone had gone silent long enough that he checked to make sure they weren't disconnected. 

"She stopped doing it over a year ago," Beth said eventually. "She's been doing krav maga, remember?"

And like, obviously Dean remembers. If driving her to practice with Kenny weren’t enough, he’d taken them to that weird regional showcase thing in Chicago their gym did instead of a tournament. He just doesn't see why she can't do both. Or, if she's only going to do one, why can't they encourage her to do dance instead, maybe make some more girl friends. 

Listen, he loves the kid to pieces and she cracks him up, but the adorable weirdo thing is going to wear thin as she gets older. Case in point: her aunt. 

Dean just thinks they should encourage her to make _normal_ friends. Not like that horse girl whose birthday party Dean took her to. Or that pale kid that insisted on carrying every ant he found outdoors. Aside from being, like, _gross,_ Dean felt bizarrely judged whenever the kid came over and found one. 

"Because she doesn't want to," Beth had said when he asked. She had that tone she gets, the one that means she's being patient, but he's testing her, and she cannot believe she needs to explain this to him. 

It's incredibly rude, honestly. She never used to be this rude. Not before she met _him._

And speak of the actual devil. 

Dean had seen Danny's tufty-headed silhouette hanging out into the aisle from the back of the auditorium and headed towards it, figuring the kids would have saved him a seat. But halfway there, he jerks to a halt, nearly tripping over his feet and attracting another round of glares and shushes. 

Not only did the kids _not_ save him a seat, but when he counts off the heads in the row, he sees Kenny next to Danny, then Jane, but not the familiar shape of Annie or Ruby. When he called to say he would be late, he assumed that’s who Beth would call to sub in, but no.

No, apparently she'd called _him_ —that...that _guy._

By some miracle, Dean hadn't actually seen him since...since that _night._ Back in January. At the bar. With the _bathroom._

Dean had waited to see if it came up, but Beth never mentioned it. Dean assumes the guy never said anything to her either. He can't see how she wouldn't have like, _apologized_ or something if he had. For what, specifically, Dean doesn't know, but Beth'd always had a way of knowing the exact right thing to say whenever he was upset. 

Except she'd never said anything, so Dean hadn't either. He didn't even like thinking about it (though he couldn't help that his mind wandered there maybe once or twice in the middle of the night when he was all alone and...y’know; it was—he was—he’d never...he didn’t usually picture two people like that).

During the day, though, Dean had absolutely no interest in acknowledging anything having to do with Beth and that guy. 

Dean knew he was still around in some capacity. His henchman, or whatever—the guy with the beard and the face tats—keeps coming by the showroom regularly to check the books. The money keeps flowing, gift boxes coming in, duffle bags going out. So he was at least around in the business-sense. But the kids had stopped mentioning him—not that they ever did all that much, but it’d trailed off to nothing—so Dean let himself start hoping that maybe, _maybe,_ Beth had started coming to her senses. Maybe he was out of the picture in a...a _personal_ sense, at least. 

He'd tried asking Jane one time if mommy's friend with the bird on his neck still came around, but she'd only looked at him with that blank, big-eyed stare she sometimes did that always makes Dean feel thoroughly and somewhat inexplicably judged, and then she’d started talking about turtles.

Apparently, the guy's still around, though, because he's _here,_ at the elementary school, _in_ the auditorium instead of lurking in the hallway waiting for Beth. Sitting with Dean's _kids._ Like he _belongs._

A part of Dean wants to march straight over there and yank them away. What’s he gonna do about it? Fight him? They’re _Dean’s_ kids. It’s not like he’s gonna pull a gun or something over it. 

Dean backs up, finding a seat in the second to last row. It's an aisle seat, at least, and it's not like the auditorium is _that_ big. Emma shouldn't have any trouble finding him in the crowd. 

He'll just _deal with it_ , because unlike _some_ people, Dean's not about making big, dramatic scenes to force people into doing what he wants. And it’s not like he can get a court order to keep the guy away from them. 

Not that he hadn't tried. 

When he and Beth were hashing out custody last year, it had...well, okay, Dean can admit it got a little ugly. He'd made some threats, made some noise about the kind of company Beth was keeping, maybe even said he'd have a pretty solid case for sole custody if Beth didn't clean up her act.

He'll never forget the way she'd looked at him when he'd said that.

And like, sure, Dean shouldn't have said it—the sole custody bit, anyway. It's not like he even _really_ wanted it. Beth's a great mom; he'd never take that away from her. But he was hurt, he was mad. His wife was leaving him for a gangbanger with neck tats, he just wanted her to _stop._ Who could blame him for losing it a little? 

But Beth, she had like, turned into this whole other person on the _spot._

She'd somehow got three inches taller while still sitting in her seat, and her face had gone blank and hard. She'd demanded the lawyers give them a minute in such an icy tone that no one said anything; they'd just snapped closed their iPad cases, jumped up, and left the room. It'd given Dean chills, to be honest.

_"How exactly are you going to do that, Dean?" she'd asked with that oh-so-sweet voice she did that always gave Dean a little bit of a boner, except this time it had an edge to it he'd never heard before, and it freaked him out, too._

_"Beth, come on," he'd said, smiling a little because she clearly wasn't thinking this all the way through. "Do you_ actually _want a social worker poking around Paper Porcupine?"_

He thought for sure that would get her to back down, but instead, she smiled, and it hadn't been a smile he'd ever seen before. It was wide and pointy and cruel. Barely even a smile really, more like baring her teeth. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn't say who. 

Then she'd proceeded to lay out exactly how she'd come up with the money to buy Boland Bubbles, what she'd been using it for, and who she'd put him in business with—after he had _specifically_ said he didn't want that. 

_"So, if I were you," she'd concluded, all sweetness gone from her voice, leaving only the edge. "I'd think very,_ very _carefully about what threats you make."_

All he'd been able to do was gape at her, unable to believe she'd just...just... _used him_ like that. He'd had goosebumps up and down his arms, any trace of a boner long gone, realizing he was—and this still made him uncomfortable to admit—absolutely terrified of the woman that had been his wife. 

He'd had no idea who the person sitting across the table from him was, who'd watched him so intently, so focused, with such rage, disgust, and _disdain._ It hit him in the flash, who she reminded him of. He’d remembered that night in the dealership, when _he’d_ shown up and smashed up the ‘Vette.

Most of the time when he thinks of that night, Dean remembers the guy smashing—how could he not, that car was his _showpiece—_ but sometimes he also thinks of that weird, loaded moment when it’d been like he and Beth were having that silent conversation. How it'd felt like _he_ was intruding on _them._

And now, sitting across from Beth at that conference table, watching her watch him like he was some kind of bug she needed to squash, all he could see was the look the guy had given Dean painted all over Beth's face.

He'd _hated_ it—still hates it, the memory of it makes him shudder—almost more than he hates that the guy had somehow boxed him in and left Dean without a move to make. 

How did this even _happen?_ How does he end up _here,_ after all of _that,_ watching the _kids_ like some kind of _boyfriend_ and not a _criminal mastermind_ who _shoots_ people in the chest in their own homes for _no reason?_

Now the guy's reaching down the row of kids—he grins as he leans across Jane, and she bites at his elbow and what is that even _about—_ to get Danny's attention. He hands him his phone, and Dean literally sees red because if he has _Dean's son_ doing _anything_ crime related, Dean is calling the cops; he doesn't _care_ what that means for the business. And now Danny's getting up, and holy _shit,_ is he doing a deal or something at the—

The audience applauds, making Dean jump, and he realizes the group of kids up on stage are taking a bow and...oh, right, Emma's probably up next. 

Dean looks back and the guy’s attention’s caught by something across the room. Dean follows his gaze and there's Beth, ducking in the door from backstage, a bulging tote bag nearly half the size of her over her shoulder, and one of those toothy clip things she uses when she does the girls' hair still clipped up in her own. She probably stuck it there while doing Emma's and forgot, and Dean smiles, something warm and fond unfurling inside him. 

Except then he looks back and even from this distance and in the dark, he can see the guy's smiling too, and all of the warmth curdles into heavy and solid sitting in Dean's gut because that's not— It's not— 

This isn't _right._

That's _Dean's_ smile, and _Dean's_ seat, and _Dean's_ kids, and _Dean's wife,_ and this guy somehow swooped in and _stole_ all of it, and Dean still doesn't even know _how._

Then Emma's group is filing on, and Dean tears his eyes away, focusing on the stage. The guy might be sitting with the kids, might've fooled them into thinking he's cool with his tats and his slang and his _math tricks,_ but Dean is still their _dad._

He finds Emma and beams with pride that she got a place in the front row. Sure, it's off to the side, not center stage, but it's way better than the clumsy kids they stick in the back. He can tell she's probably pretty nervous from the way she's gripping her streamer so hard that even from the audience Dean can see the ribbons trembling. 

Her eyes go to the side, finding Beth, and her smile goes wide and bright. Then she looks around the auditorium, squinting a little against the stage lights, and Dean puffs out his chest, raising a hand, ready to wave. But her eyes skip right over him, not even registering he's there to instead find her brothers and sister. Her gaze sweeps the whole row, including that _guy,_ and she gives them all a tiny little wave. 

And, okay, sure, she found them first, how could she not? Danny's out in the aisle with the phone up, waving like one of those inflatable wacky tube guys they tried at the dealership once. It's attention-grabbing. But instead of looking around for Dean, Emma takes her starting position, tipping her chin up—Dean sees so much of Beth in the gesture, it makes him _ache_ —and raising her streamer. Like everyone she expects— _wants_ —to see is here, and she can get started.

Dean's so furious, he doesn't even think to get his own phone out to record. Which is a shame because it seems like no time at all before the music's fading, and the audience is applauding, and he realizes he's spent the whole performance grinding his teeth and can't remember a single thing about it.

That doesn't stop him from jumping to his feet in a standing ovation, shoving his fingers in his mouth and letting out a piercing whistle, making the woman next to him jump. 

_That_ gets Emma's attention, and _now_ she grins and waves at him, so there's that. 

After the rest of the recital, Dean's trying to make his way to the stage, elbowing through the crowds of parents swarming when Misty Sagheimer cuts in front of him, catching his elbow and giving him that breathless, husky _hello_ that has always caught his attention _._ And, look, that's done and over with and has been for a long time, but it's not like he's going to be _rude._ What if she causes a scene? He more or less _has_ to stay and chit chat with her for a few minutes until her husband wades back through the crowd with their son.

By then, the crowd around the stage is so thick, he can't even see which way Emma's gone. He thinks he hears Jane yelling and sees a flash of Beth's tell-tale strawberry blonde curls all the way over to the left towards where the kids and that guy had been sitting—which means Dean has to double back and go around the center aisle. It puts him in the path of a few more people he'd rather not see and delays him even longer, so by the time he makes his way over to the kids, he's feeling particularly _aggrieved._

All of which is definitely not helped by the sight of that _guy_ with his hand tucked into Beth's back pocket. 

She's got her phone out, taking a picture of Emma and one of her classmates clutching matching rose bouquets—and _shit,_ in his rush, Dean forgot to grab flowers—but she's still leaning into him. Dean's steps stutter as she drops her head onto _his_ shoulder, and _he_ presses his cheek against it for a split second, but it’s so fast it's like neither of them even realized they did it. 

It's—it's not—Almost every time Dean's seen them before, that guy's been looming like a storm moments from crashing down on Beth. Dean didn't even know it was _possible_ for him to be anything other than barely contained rage in a, a...well, an unfairly muscled package—which, he _gets_ it, the guy goes to the gym, good for him. Some people have, like, actual jobs they work at for a living. 

The way his hand wrapped around her shoulder, rested on the small of her back as they'd left the bar flashes through Dean's mind, but he shakes it away. That was different, they'd just—

This is... it's so _casual. Intimate._ Beth's facing mostly away, but Dean can see just enough of her face to know that she's smiling the soft, satisfied little smile she gets when her family's all around her, and she's _happy,_ and it's not that he doesn't want her to be happy but seeing it from the outside is...It makes him feel…

Well, he doesn't know exactly how it makes him feel, but he doesn’t like it. 

Jane's playing some game that involves leap-frogging back and forth over the recital bag Beth's set on the ground. Kenny and Danny are sprawled out in the front row seats, Kenny looking bored and Danny doing whatever he can to imitate his brother. Emma's posing with her friend. And in the middle of it all is Beth and that guy, and they look like...like a _family._

There's something thick in Dean’s throat that he's having trouble swallowing around. When he does, there's a bitter taste, and he still doesn't know specifically what it is that's making him so sick; he just knows that he hates that guy more than anything else.

 _"Daddy!"_ Jane catches sight of him first, springing up and scrambling over the seats towards him. 

Beth's head whips around, and Dean can't help smugly noting she pulls away from the guy, his hand slipping out of her pocket. But then Jane's crashing into Dean, wrapping herself around his legs, and he has to grab hold of a seat to not tip over.

"Hi, honey—wait, Janey—" Dean reaches down, peeling her off where she's sunk her teeth into his pant leg, not wanting her to ruin the suit. 

“Hey, what’d we talk about?” The guy says to Jane and Dean glares, he doesn’t need any _help_ from—

"Dad!" Kenny pops up from his seat, his voice cracking. He follows Jane's example and—ignoring Beth's half-hearted protest—climbs over his seat, all limbs and elbows and burgeoning adolescence. Even though Dean saw him last week, he swears Kenny's grown another inch since then and it makes his stomach flip over. If the flipper feet didn’t already give it away, the growth spurt he’s been in the middle of for a year now is a clear indication he’s gonna be tall like his dad, like his grandpa.

"Hey Ken," Dean says, wrapping an arm around Kenny and pulling him into his side, frowning a little when Danny stays in his seat, peering at them with those big, blue eyes that are nearly a perfect copy of Beth's. He glances at Beth and...and _him,_ and Dean practically _feels_ his blood boil that _his kid_ needs some kind of _approval_ to say _hi._

"No hug for your dad, Danny?"

Dean knows his voice is a little too loud, and Danny flushes—another thing he got from Beth that always makes Dean feel weirdly defensive, like the kid is fragile in a way Dean doesn't entirely know how to handle. 

When Danny gets up, instead of copying his brother and sister's beeline over the seats, he takes his time coming slowly down the row into the aisle. Logically, Dean knows it's because Danny's never been as exuberant, but combined with everything else, he can't help feeling like it's some kind of rebuke, like Danny's stalling or something. 

He looks over, and Beth's watching Danny, a pinched, worried expression on her face. The guy's watching too and looks to Dean, meeting his eyes and raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

"Get over here, kiddo." Dean meant it as a joke, but it comes out harsh, like a command, and Danny's shoulders hunch even further, his hesitant steps trailing to a halt. 

"Dean," Beth hisses, her brow furrowing as she takes a step closer to Danny, her hand twitching like she wants to hold him. Beyond her, Dean can see Emma, still with her friend but watching her family, her eyes huge. He looks down at Kenny, who's looking at his feet, shifting his weight from side to side. Even Jane's stopped bouncing in favor of chewing on her sleeve. 

A thick layer of tension crackles between the six of them.

_“What?”_

Beth's face is going blotchy, which means she's getting upset, but Dean doesn't know why or how this all managed to go so wrong so quickly. 

The guy steps closer, opening his mouth, and Beth spins around.

"Don't," she says, placing a hand on his chest like she can hold him back. "Please."

He stares at Dean for a minute, his jaw rocking back and forth, and for a second, Dean thinks he's going to ignore her, try to start something, and his pulse picks up in anticipation. _Finally._

But then Beth's fingers curl, twisting into his shirt, and he looks down at her, studying her face, and nods.

When he takes a step back, Dean feels...weirdly cheated. It's not that he particularly wanted to get into it with the guy—he feels himself flush when he remembers how that worked out for him the first time—but he'd thought if the guy pushed Beth aside and lost it in front of everyone, it'd prove... _something._ Maybe then she'd _finally_ see what Dean'd been trying to tell her all along.

"Danny," Dean snaps, turning his attention back to _his_ kids. "Stop dragging your feet." 

His tone's too harsh, he knows it even before Kenny breaks away from him, but he can't help it. It's not about the kids, doesn't have anything to do with them, it's that _guy‚_ he makes Dean _crazy._

But it doesn't matter, Danny shrinks back anyway. Not just back, but closer to Beth and _that guy,_ and Dean can _feel_ his face heat and knows he's gone red. His jaw drops, and he'll be the first to admit he doesn't even know what's going to come out of his mouth. He doesn't get a chance to find out because then Beth's striding forward, hands outstretched like she's trying to ward him off.

"Your dad and I are going to have a talk, we'll be right back," Beth says over her shoulder as she herds Dean towards the side door of the auditorium. 

While Dean can't help but note all of the moms within earshot watching curiously, the image that really sticks in his mind as the doors swing shut is the four pale faces of his kids, wide-eyed and solemn, and that _fucking guy_ dropping down into a crouch to talk to Danny.

The silence out in the hallway is stark compared to the chatter of the auditorium, even with the muted hum echoing from the lobby down and around the corner. The abrupt switch cranks the anger bubbling through Dean up another notch, pushing it to the edge of boiling.

"I get that I don't have a say in who _you_ spend time with, but I still have a say in the kids, and I am _not okay_ leaving them with a wannabe _murderer_ who _shot—_ "

"Stop, Dean. Just stop. What’s _wrong_ with you?" 

The razor-sharp edge in Beth's tone has Dean blinking and looking closer, really focusing on her. Her cheeks are still flushed, brow still furrowed, but there's also a gleam in her eye and a set to her shoulders that makes Dean realize she's not just upset, she's _mad._

 _"Me?"_ The sheer unfairness of it all has him blinking and sputtering as she watches, that same unimpressed arch to her eyebrow— _his_ expression—and _God,_ when was the last time Dean had a private conversation with her without that _guy_ being a part of it? 

God, even the way she’s standing: arms crossed, hip cocked and head tilted, her lips thinning out in an exasperated line. Dean _hates_ it because this is _not_ her. Not the her he knows, anyway. _His_ Bethie was sweet and round and warm and welcoming. Whoever this is, they're all hard lines and sharp corners and unmasked disdain, and it's—it's—

It’s like he’s stolen more than Dean’s wife and family, he’s like, stolen _Beth._ The _real_ Beth. The person she is—was—whatever. The person Dean knew and loved and replaced her with this...this _fake_ Beth. 

Honestly, it's scary, is what it is, seeing such a familiar face on such an unfamiliar package. It's alien and strange, like when he sleeps on his arm funny, and when he wakes up, it's gone totally numb, and he can't feel any part of it like it's a totally separate and disconnected appendage. Like it doesn't even belong to him at all.

"I _saw_ you with him," Dean hisses, surprising himself. 

He wasn't planning to bring the bar up but maybe it's for the best. Even just saying that feels like a relief—except she's frowning at him, confused.

"At the bar," he clarifies, and when that still doesn't work, he continues. "In the bathroom."

She goes pale at that, paler than Dean thinks he's ever seen her and _good_ maybe it's sinking in. 

"So yeah, you can thank him for picking up the tab, I guess, but I don't—"

"What are you talking about?" Beth interrupts, confusion breaking through the horror.

"Oh, he didn't tell you? Figures," Dean sneers.

"Wait, your—When was this?"

"There was _more than once?"_ He throws his hands up in the air, grabbing at the back of his head like he can pull it open and make more room for the new information exploding through it. He didn't—He can't believe—Who _is she?_

Beth presses her lips together, and Dean at least still knows her enough to know that means she isn't saying anything else until he answers, so he relents. He's never in his life won that stalemate once she's dug in.

"January."

She releases a breath she must've been holding in a gust and sags back, her lips parting in a silent _oh._

"So, yeah," Dean continues. "In addition to being a _criminal,_ he's a petty _dick. That's_ who you've got all settled in with the kids, teaching them God knows what, acting like he's their _dad,_ which I’m _not_ going to stand for, Beth, I’m just not, and—"

"He was with the kids because _you weren't!"_ Beth more or less explodes at him, throwing her arms up in the air as the words burst out of her, and Dean finds himself taking a step back. _"You_ were the one who was supposed to be there. _You_ were the one who said you'd take the kids to dinner before the recital. _You_ were the one who _canceled."_

With each _you,_ she stabs an accusatory finger at Dean, taking a step forward on each point, and he takes a matching step away until his back hits the wall.

"I _told_ you it was a really big sales opportunity!" Dean breaks in, outraged that she's trying to turn this back around on him. "What was I supposed to do? Pass it up? How does it look if Boland Bubbles doesn't have any _legitimate_ sales? Or were you just planning to let the FBI take _another_ one of my businesses—"

 _"Your_ business?" Beth laughs, brittle and bitter. "Don't you dare forget who got it for you."

"How could I?" Dean snorts. "He's got the—the bearded guy with the _face tattoos,_ which, by the way, try explaining that one to the staff—coming to the showroom every few days to check the books like _I'm_ the criminal—"

"I meant—" Beth makes a strangled, disgusted noise in the back of her throat, cutting herself off. She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a step back and waving a hand between them like she's sweeping something away. "Regardless, what did you _think_ was going to happen, Dean? You knew I was volunteering backstage, and someone was going to have to watch them."

"Yeah, but I thought like, you'd call your sister. Or Ruby. Not—not _him."_ Dean flails a hand vaguely towards the auditorium.

Beth sighs. "You waited until this afternoon to tell me you couldn't do it—"

"I didn’t know—"

"—even if Ruby or Annie _were_ able to call off work at the last minute, I wouldn't ask." Beth continues, ignoring him. "If you drop the ball, you don't get to complain about who picks it up."

"I told you as soon as I found out," Dean protests, weakly. 

The door bursts open, the bubbling, excited sounds of the crowd in the auditorium spilling out as a vaguely familiar blonde lady pokes her head out. Beth jerks back, and Dean straightens up, brushing off his suit jacket. 

"Oops," the woman says, her apologetic frown at odds with her curious eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You aren't interrupting, Lauren." Beth turns towards her, a polite smile stretching across her face, but Dean can see the strain around the edges, and at least he can still read _that._ "Do you need anything?"

"We're cleaning up backstage, and I was wondering if you knew where I could find extra trash bags?"

"Probably the janitor's closet," Beth says brightly. "Same place they usually are."

"Right! Of course! I'll just go...grab those then." The woman, Lauren, makes no move to leave, still watching like she's waiting for a performance to resume. 

"I'll be back to help in a little while," Beth tells her, unarguably dismissing her.

"Of course, see you in a bit," Lauren says before reluctantly backing into the auditorium. 

The door falls shut behind her, cutting off a shrieking laugh Dean would know as Jane's anywhere, and the temper that had simmered down immediately reignites.

"I don't want him left alone with my kids, Beth," Dean picking up the point he was originally trying to make before Beth sidetracked him. "Especially if he's going to be _poisoning_ them against me—"

 _"What?"_ Beth rounds on him, abruptly, incandescently furious. "No one is poisoning anyone against you—"

"Oh yeah?" Dean interrupts. "Then what was up with Danny, huh? It was like he didn't even want to see me. Why would that be? Who _knows_ what that guy is telling the kids when you're not around!"

Beth's jaw literally drops, and she gapes at him for a moment, opening and closing her mouth like she can't decide how to respond which, _good._ Maybe his point is _finally_ sinking in, and she's reconsidering some things.

"You want to know why Danny was hesitant?" Dean jerks back, caught off guard by the venom in Beth's voice. "Because his troop is doing an overnight summer kick-off camping trip, and he was _going_ to ask you to do it with him at dinner tonight but was afraid you'd say no or worse—say yes and _cancel."_

Now it's Dean's turn to gape, struggling to reframe the memory in light of the new context. "Well, that's—Why would he—I wouldn't—"

The last part was clearly the wrong thing to say because Beth's flush flares even brighter, and her whole face twists. 

"You _wouldn't?_ How on Earth is he supposed to know that when that's _exactly_ what happened tonight? _You_ were the one who suggested going out to dinner and got them all excited. _I_ was the one that had to watch their faces fall when I told them something else came up."

"That's not—I didn't mean—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant, Dean!" Beth shouts before she stops, taking a deep breath and visibly collecting herself. When she continues, it's quieter, though no less forceful, and it makes what she's saying almost worse somehow. "They're _kids._ All they know is their dad keeps promising things and not following through."

The words land like a meteor. 

Dean's abruptly and vividly reminded of year after year waiting for his own father to come home so they could work on Dean's throw, so he could show off a new move he'd learned at football practice. Anything he could do to capture his father's attention, get him to laugh that booming laugh, to clasp Dean on the shoulder and tell him he was proud of him. Except then the phone would ring, and Dean always knew what that meant, even before his mom would pick up and listen, turning at Dean with _that_ look on her face. The one that meant another late night and another promise to make it up to Dean next time, except next time inevitably brought more of the same.

Dean had always sworn to himself he'd never be that kind of dad. He's horrified to realize he doesn't even know when he'd broken that vow, he’d slid into it so gradually. What he's feeling must play out on his face because sympathy washes over Beth's, smoothing over the sharpest edges of her anger. 

"You're their father, Dean. What Rio and I have is entirely separate from that, and if it seems to you like he's parenting your children right now, it's only because you _aren't,_ and you can change that whenever you want."

The soft words abruptly smother dwindling remains of Dean’s anger, leaving him cold, regret and shame sitting uneasily in his gut.

Dean can't bring himself to look at Beth. Instead, he focuses over her shoulder on a bulletin board decorated with grinning sunshines and beach balls, various end-of-the-school year announcements pinned up on a variety of neon-colored paper. He can see Beth watching him out of the corner of his eye, but she doesn't say anything, giving him space to absorb her point.

After a long moment, he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the air leaves his lungs, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. 

"I forgot flowers," he admits, sheepish, glancing at her and then down at his shoes.

Now Beth sighs. "Why don't you take them out for ice cream after instead? You can get Emma something extra, that'll probably do the trick."

"Yeah?" Dean perks up. "I could do that. I'll take them to Erma’s."

The original location’s a little out of the way, but his dad used to take Dean there whenever he could in the summer; it was one of their _things._ He'd always meant to continue the tradition with the kids, but it's been a while since he's taken them, Dean realizes. He can fix that, make more of an effort. 

Satisfaction and relief curl through him, warming him only to dim when he realizes Beth's shaking her head.

"They’re going to want to go to Calder."

"What? Why? Erma's is a classic—" He breaks off when Beth bites her lip, wrinkling her nose a little.

"We—Uh, I took them out to the farm a couple of weeks ago, they're a little obsessed."

He doesn't miss the way she stutters, the implication making him huff and grind his teeth before he processes what she's asking of him. "All the way out in _Carleton?"_

"There's a shop in Lincoln Park," Beth assures him like that isn't still thirty minutes away _and_ in a sketchy neighborhood. 

Dean opens his mouth to protest—is _that_ the kind of place that _guy's_ made her comfortable taking _his_ kids—but before he can say anything she raises her eyebrows, a clear warning against pushing her any further. So, Dean lets it go and just nods, letting her think he agrees. He'll take them to Erma’s. They'll get a kick out of the old-timey set up. He always did.

"They'll love that," Beth says, unleashing a grin so bright it catches him off guard and makes his chest hurt. It lights her up from inside, her pure and uncomplicated happiness that he's taking the kids out for ice cream, knowing what it'll mean to them. It makes her almost seem like she's glowing. “Make sure you grab a bunch of extra napkins, Jane ended up with ice cream on the back of her head and we didn’t notice until we got back in the car.”

She laughs softly, ruefully. There’s obviously a joke in there Dean’s not getting. 

It hits him suddenly, the idea that she should be going with them, the knowledge that he had her, and lost her, and it's fundamentally altered the shape of their family. The force of impact, a sucker punch wrapped in awareness and regret, takes his breath away and leaves him rooted to the spot even as Beth turns and starts back towards the auditorium. 

"You coming?" she says, looking back over her shoulder when she realizes he's lagging behind. When he still doesn't move, she stops, pivoting back to face him. "Is there something else?"

For a split second, he wants to ask if she's happier now than she ever was with him. If she thinks the kids are. He can feel the words piling up on his tongue, the pressure building behind his teeth, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is: "No, nothing else."

And he follows her back through the doors.

———

**August**

_Garlic, mushrooms, spinach, rosemary, lemon, white wine, chicken. Wait. Oh hell. He's forgetting— Chicken broth._

_Garlic, mushrooms, spinach, lemon, white wine, chicken, chicken broth. Nailed it._

_Wait—_ Dammit, _rosemary._

_Garlic, mushrooms, spinach, white wine, chicken, chicken broth, rosemary._

_Okay._

It wasn't that Dean's nervous. 

Okay, he's kind of nervous. 

It's just that he hasn't really _romanced_ a woman in awhile. After that string of disasters in the beginning of the year, he’d finally concluded something was missing and taken a break, thinking he'd concentrate on the business for a bit. 

Who knows, maybe he could grow the legitimate side enough that he can convince Beth to shut down the...the _other_ part. Let Dean have it. _Something._ He was so _tired_ of the endless parade of tattooed thugs parading their way through, _babysitting_ him. Every time that bearded dude popped his head in Dean's office, it reopened the wound, reminding him of...all of it. 

How Beth had played him, how she'd gone to that _guy_ knowing full well Dean wanted to do this himself, how it'd _worked_ and _worse,_ got them back together. And on top of that, the fact that they felt like they had to _watch_ him was just...it wasn't fair. He wasn’t the one who got the dealership raided.

So, yeah. Dean wanted out from under that situation. He’s been thinking more and more about what it’d be like to buy out the business, make it _truly_ his own. _Actually_ live up to his dad’s legacy, not this weird, kind of, sort of, not really situation. 

Sure, he’ll take a little bit of a financial hit at first, taking on all the expense and it would suck to lose what he will begrudgingly admit is a pretty generous salary.

Dean’d been surprised when Beth brought it up in the first place. They’d been hashing out the details of the divorce and he’d assumed he’d be paying alimony since that’s how it works, but Beth refused and offered the salary package instead. 

_"You're the father of my children," she'd said like it was the most obvious thing in the world._

He'd squirmed, shame that he needed the money and gratitude that she was being so...so _graceful_ about it at war within him. It wasn’t until later the other shoe dropped and he realized it was at least in part to keep him quiet.

But things were different now. The business was booming. Sure, some of that was that it's the season for, it but Dean likes to think he's actually pretty good at this sales thing. It was in his blood, after all. Maybe he couldn't sell cars on his dad's level, but he was doing pretty good with spas.

With things starting to take off, it'd left Dean with more time to himself, and he'd realized he was pretty lonely. He'd been hesitant to restart the dating app, much to Kenny's disappointment—actually, all the kids, they'd gotten weirdly invested in Dean's love life recently. But he was on the verge of caving, accepting he was going to have to wade through another series of depressing encounters to maybe, _maybe_ find something good, when he'd met Melissa.

Melissa was different. They've gone out a few times over the past month or so, and Dean can't really explain it, but he feels... _something_ with her that's not like the other women he's dated. Something that makes him want to try a little harder, do something that'll really impress her.

Something that reminds him of Beth, honestly. Of the, well, not the early days—back in high school when he wouldn't have known a good date if it'd hit him in the face—but maybe the early middle days. After college, before he proposed, but after he'd started managing the dealership with his dad. Around the time when they bought the house, and he'd been so excited, so hopeful, at the bright future stretched out before them, the possibilities endless.

Anyway, Melissa makes him feel like that. Not in the same way, obviously. He isn't twenty-six anymore, he knows what his life looks like, and for the most part, unfortunate and unintentional business partners aside, he's pretty happy with it these days. But that sparkling possibility of what could be? She brings that back. 

The point is, he wants to do something special. 

He'd tried to remember the last time he'd gone all out and was a little embarrassed to admit that he came up empty. But he did remember when things were _really_ bad with him and Beth, after Amber, around when...when that _guy_ showed up and ruined it all. He watched all of those cooking videos and made dinner. She hadn't had time to eat—okay, yeah, sure, he can see now that maybe his timing wasn't the best—but the kids had liked it, and he's pretty sure Beth would've been impressed under different circumstances. 

So yeah, cooking. Dean found a recipe that seemed easy enough; it was based on an Olive Garden dish, so he's pretty sure it'll be good. He'd also remembered that Beth always liked to go to the fancy farmer's market grocery store over in Troy when she was making something she wanted to impress people with. But now that he's here, he wishes he'd thought to write the damn ingredients down because he has the nagging sense that he's forgetting something but can't think of what.

 _Garlic, mushrooms, spinach, chicken, chicken broth, rosemary..._ lemon! _What else?_

"What about these?"

"Oh, those are good ones!" The first voice hadn't totally registered on Dean's radar, but the bright, husky response cuts straight through the ambient noise of the registers dinging and customers chattering. "Do you want to go grab some kiwis or pears next?"

"Kiwis!"

Sure enough, Dean rounds the corner to find Beth in the middle of the produce section, surrounded by rustic displays of a wider range of fruits and vegetables Michigan can produce, evaluating the apples she's pulled out of an aesthetically tipped over bushel basket. The warm overhead lighting makes her hair glow like a soft, strawberry blonde halo, and he can tell from the freckles dotting her arms that she's been out in the sun. Knows she'll have a matching set sprinkled over the bridge of her nose.

It feels...strange, being surprised to see her. It's not like Dean doesn't know she shops here, not like they don't see each other pretty regularly, what with trading off of the kids and all, it's just that usually when he sees her, he knows that he's going to, or that it was a possibility. He can't think of the last time _—smoothing down her dress, that secret smile, those long fingers spread across the small of her back—_ he was caught entirely off guard by seeing her. 

He shouldn't—This shouldn't throw him, right? The divorce has been final for about a year and a half now; none of this is new. 

It's just that…The sudden awareness that after twenty-three years— _God,_ it continually floors him that that's like, _half_ his _life_ —of Beth as a part of Dean-and-Beth, now she's, like, _Beth._ Someone else. Someone with her own life he doesn't know that much about. Someone he might see someplace with no warning like any other person. Beth without Dean. 

Dean without Beth.

It's weird is all. 

Beth selects an apple, sliding it into a plastic bag, twisting and tying it closed with deft, oddly graceful movements. When she turns to place it in her already full cart, she jumps, nearly dropping the apple.

"Dean!" She gasps, laughing a little. "You startled me. What are you doing here?"

"Shopping," he says, holding up his basket and weaving his way around the table of bananas between them. 

“Here?”

"I uh, I have a date tonight, and I wanted to do something special. Actually, maybe you can help me, I—"

"Wait, Dean, where are the kids?" She cuts him off and looking around.

"They're at my mom's. I didn't, um. I didn't want to cancel or change the schedule, so I figured they could do a sleepover at grandma's."

Beth's face falls a little, but she also nods approvingly, maybe even a little impressed, and Dean preens. His epiphany at the recital and the memory of all those canceled plans stuck with him. Like Beth had opened some box inside him, and he couldn't quite put what spilled out entirely away. He loved—loves—his dad, but he really doesn't want his kids to remember him the same way. 

"What next?"

The first thing Dean notices about the little boy that runs up to Beth, triumphantly brandishing a bag bulging with kiwis, is how well dressed he is. His trendy grey shorts coordinate with a set of pristine sneakers and the gray and blue stripes on his plaid summer button-down, like something out of a fashion spread. Dean can't fathom his own kids looking that put together. Hell, he can't fathom himself looking that together.

The second thing Dean realizes is that he doesn't know this kid. Though, when the boy turns and peers up at him, dimple fading as the wide, gap-toothed grin dims into something less excited, more polite, Dean puts the pieces together pretty quickly, his mouth dropping open as realization hits. 

It's not that he'd like, forgot that the guy had a kid. It would've been impossible with the way the kids talked about him, especially Jane. In fact, they talked about him so much more than the guy—though, that’d started to shift over the summer, an upward trend that made Dean grit his teeth—it'd taken Dean a minute to figure out who the Marcus they kept mentioning even _was._

_"He's um, he's Mr. Rio's son," Kenny'd said, glancing around the table at the rest of the kids when Dean'd finally asked one night over dinner a month or two back._

But it's not until now that Dean realizes he's never actually _met_ the kid. 

Dean tears his eyes away from that familiar dark-eyed scrutiny reproduced in miniature to Beth. She's watching him just as big-eyed right back, like she's nervous about what _Dean's_ gonna do. Which is—that's—well, kind of hilarious given the kid's dad is a gangbanger who _shoots people._ Who knows what this kid's been exposed to. 

"Do you want to get those pears, now?" Beth asks, turning her attention back to the kid, a soft, affectionate smile spreading across her face.

A mom smile, Dean recognizes, a pit opening up in his stomach. 

After things had fallen all the way apart between them, Dean had always clung to the comforting thought that no matter what Beth had said, she'd been seduced. Not just by that guy—though obviously he'd played a huge role in it—but by the power and danger of the world he'd lured her into. She'd gotten a taste of something new and exciting and been dazzled by it. 

It was totally understandable if Dean's being entirely honest with himself. He gets it, alright? Obviously, he gets it. After twenty plus years of the same thing, it’s totally reasonable to get distracted by something new. _Strange._

But it was always supposed to be a phase. A fling. Something she'd get over.

Not like—It wasn't that Dean was holding out hope that he and Beth would get back together or anything; he's not a child. 

Like, sure, there are still some nights when the reality of how much his life has changed and how much he's lost sits heavy on his chest. But he's always been able to console himself with the knowledge that it's not like he _gave up_ or anything; he just couldn't compete with the kind of thrill that guy brought to the table. 

But this...with his _kid—_

"Okay!" Marcus darts off, leaving Dean blinking at nothing.

"Get the two of the brown ones," Beth calls after him before turning back to Dean and frowning at whatever she sees on his face. "Dean? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just, um…" Dean swallows hard, tasting bile at the back of his throat. She takes a step towards him, and he instinctively relaxes, ready to accept the comfort he assumes she's reaching out to provide, but she just motions him out of the way to get closer to the bananas behind him. "I, uh…"

She glances over at him, curious and maybe the beginnings of a little concerned, as he stutters, groping around for something to say.

The truth is, he doesn't even know why he feels what he's feeling. Why the sight of the kid is freaking him out so much. Why Beth reflexively smiling that warm mom smile has lodged itself under his skin, throbbing and burning like a splinter under a fingernail.

He's saved from having to come up with an answer because the kid comes back, handing-off a bag of pears and looking at Dean again, clearly curious but too polite to ask. 

Dean assumes the manners come from the kid's mom. 

Beth raises an eyebrow, silently asking if Dean's got himself together, and he takes a deep breath, huffing it back out. It's not the kid's fault his dad is—he's Beth's—it's not the kid's fault. 

Besides, that guy isn't the only one who can get kids to like him. 

"Hi, buddy!" Dean smiles wide and drops down into a crouch. "I'm Dean. What's your name?"

He extends a hand, and the kid looks at it for a second, then up at Beth, who smiles a smaller, tenser smile than the one from before but nods.

"Marcus," the kid says, shaking Dean's hand before pulling back, shuffling a tiny step closer to Beth. 

"This is Jane and Danny and Kenny and Emma's dad," Beth explains, smoothing a hand over the kid's head and ruffling his hair, prompting him to shake her off with a giggle, the dimple winking out again.

"Carmen," he says, and Dean frowns. Is there _another_ kid? But no, because Beth looks just as perplexed. 

"Who's Carmen?"

"He is!" Now the kid looks confused, but there’s a gleam in his eye. "When Jane came over to dad's house, he said—" The kid pauses, screwing up his face in a pretty impressive version of his dad's glower, and when he keeps going, he's trying to lower his voice but can't quite get there. "—that fuc—"

"Car man! That's right; this is the car man." Beth interrupts when Dean jerks back, following the kid's cut off sentence. Her voice is high and excessively perky like she can smooth away what the kid was about to say with the force of her enthusiasm as she changes the subject, focusing hers and the kid's attention on what's in the shopping cart. "We have peaches, blueberries, and kiwis already. What other fruit should we get?"

"Mangos!" The kid shouts, then turns to Dean, excitement bringing his dimple all the way back out. "We're making paletas!"

"Oh yeah?" Dean asks, rising out of his crouch and nearly staggering when one of his knees locks. "What's that?"

The kid blinks, trying to absorb the idea of not knowing what a— whatever the hell he just said is. 

"They're basically popsicles," Beth explains. "More like frozen smoothies."

"We're bringing them to Tío Mick's because it's rude not to bring a dish!" From the way Beth flushes, Dean's pretty sure now the kid's mimicking her. 

"It's an end-of-summer barbeque," Beth says, chewing on her lip and bending down to adjust the placement of some of the produce in her cart, not making eye contact. "I guess it's an annual event."

"Oh." That weird, roiling feeling is back in Dean's stomach. Beth's _nervous._ He can see it in the way she's plucking at the bags of fruit, stacking and restacking them. 

"We're also making chiles because it's mom's favorite," the kid announces, oblivious to the rising tension, and Beth's blush flares even higher. Dean can see it now on the tip of her ear where she's tucked back her hair.

"Marcus, why don't you go pick out three mangos?"

The kid scampers off, weaving between the displays like he knows where he's going, and Dean wonders if Beth's brought him here enough that he's figured out where stuff is. 

The thought has him rolling his shoulder, trying to work out the dull ache in his chest. 

"So, this is really happening, huh?"

Beth frowns, clearly not following, and Dean has to swallow once, then twice before he can continue.

"You and...and the _guy,"_ he clarifies, but she only frowns harder.

"Dean, you knew we've been—we're—" She huffs, twisting her hands around the handle of the cart, her knuckles going white. "You knew."

"Yeah, but this is like, _his_ stuff. In _public."_

"Dean—" Oh, he knows that tone, _hates_ that tone. It always makes him feel like a kid who's done something bad, or a puppy that's made a mess on the carpet. 

"So you're gonna what, meet his...his _baby mama?"_

 _"Dean!"_ Beth's definitely pissed now but too bad for her. She's the one making these choices. If she's going to do it, she needs to live with it. "That's so—Rhea isn't—You have _no_ idea what you're talking about, and that's an awful thing to say." 

"Why? If the shoe fits!"

"It's disrespectful and _demeaning._ You can't just go around—"

"Wait," he cuts her off, the name Rhea ringing a dim bell. It reminds him of that glorious window two summers ago after all of this had started, but when he thought it was a blip and they'd get past it, that they'd been free. "Didn't you have a friend named Rhea for awhile?"

Beth stops sputtering, her mouth snapping shut with an audible click, and her eyes drop to her hands, still clenched around the cart. 

"That was her," she mutters. 

"Oh." Dean absorbs that, connecting the dots. "So, wasn’t that when—"

"Yes," Beth bites out through gritted teeth. 

"Does she know…?" Dean trails off.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking, he doesn’t know the specifics of whatever went down that night when Beth disappeared and came back crying. Every time he asked, she’d clam all the way up, going so pale she was nearly gray. But he knows the guy’d been dead and Beth had been there—probably had _something_ to do with it, that much was obvious. From the way the friend, Rhea, abruptly stopped coming over around when _he’d_ come back, and the fact that she’s apparently _his_ ex, it seems logical that the two might be connected.

"She found out." Beth’s actually looking a little pale right now, come to think of it. 

_"Oh."_ Dean doesn't really know what to say to that, and the uncertainty undercuts out some of his anger, leaving him feeling awkward. 

He has a vague recollection of a pretty woman with short, dark hair. A pretty _normal_ woman. Who like, volunteered for stuff, and looked like she probably did PTA. 

A woman kind of like _Beth._

Dean smooths his hands along the handle of his cart, struggling to readjust his mental picture. It's not that he can't believe the guy would've hooked up with someone like Beth—obviously, he's been forced to accept that one whether he wants to or not. And Dean can definitely buy him being irresponsible enough to get her pregnant. 

But the fact that they're apparently still on good enough terms that they do barbeques and stuff? That she's important enough for Beth to like, try and fix things? That she's _stressed_ about it?

Well. That last one doesn't say much. Beth stresses about everything. 

It stings, honestly, seeing Beth so twisted up over the whole thing. She’d never gotten this kind of twisted up over making things work with his mom and she’d never been anything but nice to Beth. 

“That’s, uh. That’s a tough one,” he offers, figuring he can be the bigger person.

Beth laughs softly, but it isn’t a happy sound. “You have no idea.”

He doesn’t, Dean realizes and the thought leaves the bitterest taste in his mouth: Dean has a couple of affairs and it’s the end of _everything,_ but with this guy, it’s guns and crime and death and all of it’s okay, apparently. Something they can just figure out how to get over.

"I got mangos!" 

The kid's back, dangling the bag of fruit over the edge of the cart, looking for a place where they won't crush anything before dropping them in.

"Perfect," Beth cries, hiding her distress. "I think the only thing left from over here are the peppers. Can you pick out six good ones?"

"Yes!" Her happy facade dims when the kid runs off—the stress creeping back in—but there’s still this contentment about the way she watches Marcus go that reminds Dean of walking in on her hanging out with the kids.

Dean's stomach _twists,_ and he still doesn't know exactly what's eating at him. 

Beth takes a deep breath, and Dean's shoulders tighten. He's not even sure why or what he's bracing for, this whole conversation—situation—it's just...it's a lot to take in. 

But Beth only lets the breath out in a sigh, and when she turns back to him, she's smiling a bright, polite smile Dean can't help respond to, some of his agitation settling and smoothing over.

"So, date shopping?" she asks, gesturing at his empty basket. "She must be pretty special; you always hated coming all the way out here."

"Oh, yeah, I—uh." Dean shuffles, blushing. He doesn't know what the rules are for talking to ex-wives about current girlfriends. Girlfriend. He almost laughs; the word makes him feel so old. "It's uh, Melissa? I don't know if you know her. She manages the bakery across the street from the showroom. She asked me out a few weeks ago, and it's been...he's really nice. I like her a lot."

"I don't think I've ever met her," Beth says, her smile stretching into more of a grin. "She makes good cupcakes, though.'

Dean raises his eyebrows, pride puffing his chest out. High praise: he doesn't think he's ever seen Beth go out of her way to buy a baked good from anyone the entire time he's known her. She's always preferred to make her own.

"Does this mean you're cooking?" Beth asks the question with a teasing lilt. "Because I remember more than a few instances that ended with a shrieking smoke detector and all of the windows open in the middle of January."

"Hey!" Dean grins, relieved to be back on more familiar ground. "A guy puts a plastic pasta strainer on the stove _one_ time—"

"And foil in the microwave, and forgot about a pot of boiling water for over an hour, and—"

"Okay, okay," Dean puts his hands up in surrender. "Maybe there were a few instances. But I learned from all of them.

"Learned that you should leave the cooking to me?"

"We all have stuff we're good at," Dean teases.

Beth laughs, but there's something brittle in it that makes him feel awkward and he’s suddenly hit with the weirdest sense of deja vu but he can’t figure out why. 

"What are you making?" she asks, the words and the accompanying smile coming out slightly stilted.

"Uh, garlic rosemary chicken?" Dean scratches the back of his head. "It's from—"

"Olive Garden," Beth finishes with the same mocking grimace she always makes whenever the restaurant chain comes up.

"What?" He grins, knowing his lines. "I like it! And besides, it's not like it's Applebees."

Beth sing-songs the last part along with him, and this time when she laughs, it's affectionate and familiar and smooths away any of the remaining awkwardness. 

"Do you have a list?"

"Garlic, mushrooms, spinach, white wine, chicken, chicken broth, rosemary." Dean rattles the ingredients off with a proud smile. 

Beth nods along, looking thoughtful. "You might want to add a splash of lemon.”

Dammit. "Right! Lemon. Good idea."

"Get a good white," she advises. "Something you'd drink."

"I was going to grab a Chard," Dean says, pleased with his instincts. He'd figured that would be more efficient, anyway. 

Beth wrinkles her nose. "Get a dry Pinot Grigio to cook with; save that for serving."

"Got it. Okay. Any other tips?"

"Do you have a recipe you're following?" 

"Yeah, I found it online, it seems pretty straightforward. There's a video and everything."

"Good." She pauses, chewing on her lip like she's unsure if she should keep going. 

"If you've got anything else, Beth, please. I, uh…" Dean licks his lips. "I don’t want to mess this up."

"Check out Cooking With Katie, all one word, Katie—with a K and an ie—dot com. She has a series of videos that go over some of the basics, like when to use salt and saving your pasta water. It'll really bring the recipe together."

"Thank you," Dean says, putting all of the sincerity he can muster into the words. "I'm sorry, I know this is...it's just that, you know, after everything, I want—I just want—"

"It's okay, Dean, I get it." Beth cuts him off with a gentle smile. She lifts a hand like she's going to reach for him but tucks her hair behind her ear instead. "And this is _good._ I want you to be happy."

"Yeah?" Emboldened by her nod and her sincerity, Dean continues. "I was thinking earlier how weird it feels to be dating again. Makes me feel young."

He breaks off with a self-deprecating laugh, and her smile flickers but then gets a little wider. It's familiar and comforting, so he keeps going. “Remember back when we first bought the house, how much fun that was?"

"You mean when my mom was dying, and Annie was pregnant and terrified she was about to be homeless?" Beth asks, raising her eyebrows, her smile going dry.

Dean flushes. He'd forgotten that was what was happening at the same time, to be honest. "Well, yeah, no, okay, not that part."

He's saved from having to figure out how to recover from that by the kid running up, clutching a bag full of green peppers. 

"I think that's it for fruits and vegetables," Beth says, instantly switching her full attention over to the little boy as he drops the peppers in. He frowns when he sees where Beth's put the bananas and moves them, arranging a clear space at the front of the cart with a slightly unnerving amount of precision for a kid. 

"Marcus is an expert at grocery shopping," Beth says, reading Dean's confusion. "He has a very specific system optimized to keep the produce from getting crushed and the cold stuff freshest longest. It's genius. What's next?"

She asks the last part to the kid who's beaming at the compliment. "Dairy, then meat!"

"And then that's it, right?"

"Well…" Now the kid looks down, drawing a circle on the floor with his toe. "We _could_ be done…"

Beth grins. "Or?"

"Or we could get some ice cream."

"Ice cream? I thought we were making paletas?"

"Yeah, but you're not making those until _Saturday,_ and it's so _hot."_ The kid says the last part with a dramatic shrug, draping himself against the cart like he's melting, and Dean blinks, recognizing that move from the thousands of times Jane's used it.

Beth's grin grows even wider. "Well, I was thinking. I've never made them before, so maybe we could do a practice round when we get home?"

"Yeah?" The kid jumps back up, that infectious smile spreading across his face.

Dean shifts his weight. It's like the two of them have entirely forgotten he's there.

He clears his throat, catching both of their attention and motioning awkwardly with his basket. "So, I should probably…"

"Oh, right!" Beth turns back to the kid. "Marcus, why don't you get a head start? I'll be right behind you." 

The kid nods and takes a single running stride before jerking to a halt, his sneakers squeaking as he spins around. "It was nice to meet you, Carmen!"

"Dean," Dean corrects, but the kid's already taken off, and he doesn't know if he even heard. 

When Dean looks back at Beth, she's trying and failing to smother a laugh, and he can't help smiling back a little; the kid is really cute. 

"He seems like a good kid," Dean offers.

There's that mom smile again. "He is."

And there's that uncomfortable, vaguely nauseous feeling churning in his stomach. Maybe it's something he ate.

"You seem really happy," Dean says, and he's not sure who's more shocked he said it, him or Beth.

"I am." She says it soft and kind of shy like she's admitting to something secret, and when Dean takes a deep, shaky breath in response, his chest aches, but it's complicated, and he thinks maybe he's a little happy for her too. 

There's a long, loaded beat, and Dean feels like he should say something more, but he doesn't have the faintest idea what it is.

"I should, um…" Beth breaks the moment, gesturing in the direction the kid— _Marcus—_ has run off in.

"Right, yeah, of course," Dean takes a step back out of her way. "And I should…"

"You're still bringing the kids back Sunday evening, right?"

"4:30, right?"

"Perfect." She starts to push the cart past him and pauses. "Good luck, Dean."

"Thanks," he says, turning to assess the produce, trying to figure out where to start.

_Lemon, white wine, garlic, mushrooms, spinach, lemon, chicken, chicken broth...shit, what else?_

"You too!" he calls, spinning back around, but she's already gone.

———

**November**

The really stupid thing is when Beth called to hash out the holidays—offering to make things simple by hosting both Dean and his mom for Thanksgiving—it didn’t even _occur_ to Dean to ask who else might be joining them.

Pulling up on the day of, Dean’s immediately struck by how weird it is to park in the street and not the driveway. It’s not like he hasn’t done it a hundred times since moving out, but there’s something about it being a holiday that makes the whole thing feel more significant. 

Walking up to the front door feels strange, too. That vine thing he likes so much has gone dormant, the vines still twined around the posts and trellis but brittle and brown. Beth’s set up some kind of decorative hay bale laden with funny shaped gourds and different colored pumpkins next to the front door, which is new, but Dean recognizes the autumn-themed wreath she’s hung on the door. He remembers when she made it something like five years back, painstakingly weaving branches and silk leaves into a festive red and gold and brown explosion that seems to have held up pretty well over the years.

Kenny answers when Dean rings the bell—barely hesitating when muscle memory tries to kick in, urging him to just open the door—and the rest of the kids come skidding out of the living room as soon as they hear him arrive, piling in for a group hug. Jane nearly conks herself in the head with the six-pack and bottle of wine he's carrying—the only contributions Beth finally relented and said she’d accept. 

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he booms, trying to hug them all together. Strangeness aside, this is already better than last year’s nightmare. 

The kids hadn’t been used to navigating two households and trying to shuffle them back and forth between the house, and his mom's was a disaster. He'd had to turn around _three_ times when he was bringing them over from his mom's. He swore they were intentionally leaving stuff and demanding to go back and get it. 

Plus, the whole first holiday post-divorce part. He hadn’t been prepared for how lonely it’d be, going home to an empty condo, a tote bag full of leftovers the only sign anything remotely festive had taken place.

The whole thing had been a bummer all around, honestly.

He'd figured Beth felt the same, that she'd invited him because she wanted to have a full family Thanksgiving again, even if their family didn't look quite the same as it used to.

Kenny steps back, giving them room and glancing towards the kitchen. "Can I take your coats?"

“You _may,”_ Dean’s mom says, pushing past him—still laden down with clinging kids, trying to slide his feet out from under Emma's—and hands the pie she's carrying to Kenny before starting to unwind her scarf. “And aren’t you a little gentleman?”

Kenny flushes, setting the pie on the credenza and holding out his hands for his grandma’s scarf and coat. “Little” is pushing it. He’s shot up probably almost nine inches this year. Too gangly for his own good, he nearly elbows the pie off the credenza he’d set it on when he spins to take the jacket Dean’s struggling out of, trying to keep from elbowing a clinging Danny in the face.

“Danny, help don’t hinder your father,” Judith says, ruffling his hair and coaxing him off Dean. “You’d think you hadn’t seen him in a year!”

“Dad, dad—look what I’m working on.” 

Emma skips back, lifting her arms over her head and going up on her toes before launching into a graceful series of spins, her socked feet slipping a little on the polished wood floors, nearly sending her crashing into her brother.

“That’s _lovely,_ dear. You’re growing into quite the young lady.” Judith steadies her, cupping her cheek before turning back to Jane still clinging to Dean’s arm and nodding to the pie. “It’s pumpkin, your favorite. Will you make sure it gets in the refrigerator? It’s better if it’s chilled.”

Dean had tried to talk her out of the pie, suggesting she leave it behind when he’d picked her up, but she’d waved him away and assured him Beth wouldn’t mind. Dean wasn’t entirely sure that was true—Beth had adamant that she didn't need or want any help in the kitchen, and Judith staying out of the space had been an explicit condition when she'd included his mom in the invitation.

Beth and his mom have never gotten along as well as Dean wished they would and he could never figure out why. Like, sure, he knows his mom can be pretty... _particular_ about how things are done, but it’d always seemed like the kind of thing Beth—of all people—would’ve understood. But instead, there's always been a layer of frost between them that made Dean feel vaguely guilty, like it was something he should've been able to fix, but he could never figure out how. 

But Beth's always been weird about the kitchen in general—the fastest, most surefire way to piss her off was to make a mess in there—and especially around Thanksgiving, so Dean figured the least he could do was agree. He hoped that since his mom wasn’t actually _making_ anything at the house, _bringing_ a pie didn’t violate the condition.

(Not that he would _ever_ say anything to his mom, but Dean’s always liked Beth's Thanksgivings better, he _really_ didn’t want to mess this up.) 

"It’s my pie!" Jane yells, springing back and snatching it up, racing off to the kitchen.

“Don’t be absurd, Jane, you can’t eat a whole pie—”

Whatever else his mom’s saying falls away as Dean’s abruptly reminded of Beth's other condition: that he not make a scene. At the time, he hadn't given it much thought, he'd been too excited at the idea of doing the holidays like old times, and figured she meant something with the kids.

He wasn’t far off, but now he sees she probably meant in _front_ of the kids.

Because R—the—that _guy_ —and no, Dean still can't bring himself to even _think_ his name, it feels like an approval he doesn't want to, _can't_ bring himself to give—is in the kitchen. 

Looking...disorientingly at _home_ in it.

He's leaned up against the counter, listening to some story Annie's telling with increasingly animated hand gestures with a sort of skeptical but also maybe a little... _fo_ _nd_ frown on his face. 

Dean feels abruptly, incredibly foolish for not even considering this as a _possibility._ But, how was he supposed to know? Thanksgiving is for _family._ Shouldn’t he have one of his _own_ he spends it with? 

When Jane comes speeding into the kitchen, without missing a beat, the guy bends over and hooks an arm around Jane’s waist, lifting her up. In one smooth, continuous motion, he takes the pie from her and sets it on the counter, before flipping Jane over, somehow managing to spin her at the exact right angle to keep her from kicking over anything while she shrieks and flails. 

“See if you can find space for that in the fridge, yeah?” He says to Annie, nodding towards the pie.

“You’re not the boss of me when I’m off the clock,” Annie shoots back, scooping it off the counter and crossing to the fridge as he slings Jane over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and lopes off into the dining room, her giggles trailing in their wake. 

Dean blinks, trying to align this version of the guy with the one who’d dragged Dean into the same room and tied him to a chair.

His stomach rolls. It’s a...complicated—to say the least—feeling, seeing the guy that _shot_ him casually handling his daughter. How much of a _non-issue_ it is to everyone else. How much she clearly loves—it.

He clears his throat, turning away to see Emma, Danny, and Kenny are carefully not looking at him. He glances to his mom, who raises her eyebrows and, _right._ Maybe she's heard a little bit about the guy. Not the like, _details,_ or anything. But she knows Beth has a...a _boyfriend,_ and that Dean doesn't like him.

His mom had taken matters into her own hands, quizzing the kids over dinner one day a month or two ago, asking them what Beth had been up to and if she’d made any _special_ friends. At the time, Dean’d still been dating Melissa, so even though he knows his face had probably gone a little frozen based on the look his mom leveled at him while Emma told her all about Beth’s boyfriend, it hadn’t hurt as much as it could’ve. 

Now...well. 

"Well, would you look at all of this!" Before Dean can stop her, Judith's heading towards the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves. "How can I help?"

"Judith," Beth coos, coming around the island and planting herself firmly in between his mom and the rest of the kitchen. "That's so sweet of you to offer, but you're a guest, you should relax."

She says it with a smile, except Dean can see the edge behind it, can hear it in her voice too.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” His mom’s doing that overly bright thing she does when she’s getting ready to fight and Dean nearly winces, he probably should’ve been a little more clear about the no-help-in-the-kitchen thing.

"Where should I put these?" he asks, brandishing the beer in one hand and the wine in the other, louder than he needs to like volume's going to cut the riding tension.

"I got it, man." The guy's coming back in, hand outstretched, and Dean yanks the six-pack away from him, nearly hitting Annie in the face where she's coming around the counter to take the wine.

"Whoa there, Deansie. On edge?" Annie's got this smug, nasty, knowing little smirk on her face and God, she probably _loves_ this. 

Dean clutches the beer and wine to him, looking back and forth between the two of them boxing him in. Annie's smirk stretches into a full-on grin, but the guy just rolls his eyes and skirts around the island, running a hand over Beth's shoulder as he passes. 

It gives Dean a pang. Neither of them reacts to it like it's so reflexive, habitual, they don't even notice.

Judith clears her throat. “I don’t believe we’ve... _met.”_

She says it with an emphasis that implies she doesn’t think they should have any reason to and looks him up and down, eyes lingering on his neck, the bars peeking out from below his t-shirt sleeves—guess _someone_ hadn't gotten the dress code memo. Or maybe he's just ignoring it, that'd figure.

The guy snorts and Dean tenses, not sure what he’s going to do, but it’s not the guy he needed to worry about because suddenly Beth’s moving forward and forcing his mom to step back.

“This is Rio, Judith,” she says, that steely smile more steel than smile now. “My—

She stops, taking a deep breath. “My boyfriend.”

A blush flares bright red across Beth’s face and Dean’s stomach swoops. She can’t see him but the guy’s head whips around, something flickering across his face. He looks away too quick for Dean to catalogue it, but he saw enough that he can tell it’s raw and open in a way that makes him feel like he caught a glimpse of something he shouldn’t.

Dean feels ill.

“Judith Boland.” His mom extends a hand over Beth’s shoulder towards him.

Beth openly rolls her eyes and his mom graciously ignores her.

When the guy turns back, whatever look Dean’d seen is long gone, he’s as smirky as ever, popping a brow and grasping Dean’s mom’s hand and bobbing his head at her. 

“S’a pleasure to meet you.”

Okay, he did _not_ have to say it like that, all low and smooth, and _Jesus,_ is his mom _blushing?_

“So, Rio,” his mom takes half a step to the side, trying to angle her way further into the kitchen, frowning as Beth matches her. “What do you do?”

Dean’s sputter is drowned out by Annie’s cackle as she tugs the beer out of Dean’s hands.

"The kids are set up in the living room with Ben folding napkins,” Beth says, drawing his mom’s attention back to her. “I know they'd love to spend time with you, and I'm sure you could teach them some tricks."

Behind her back, the guy turns and fishes a colander out of the right cabinet on the first try—a feat Dean had never entirely managed in all the years he'd lived here, and the sight tipping the world that much more off-kilter—and dumps a bag of red skin potatoes in before turning on the sink. 

It’s like a switch’s been flipped, the loss of his attention final and non-negotiable. Dean wonders if _he_ was _also_ instructed to not cause a scene. 

Dean doesn’t know what to do with that, how to feel about being dismissed so completely, like he’s insignificant. He doesn’t understand how the guy can be so utterly unconcerned with Dean being around. It doesn’t feel _fair._

"There has to be _something_ I can help with—are you using red skins for the mashed potatoes?" Dean's mom frowns and cranes her neck to see over Beth’s shoulder. "I'm sure you know what you're doing, dear, but, well…

"We're doing roasted this year, Judith," Beth says, flat and final, before taking a deep breath, reigniting her smile. "I appreciate the offer, I do, but as you can see, between Annie and Rio, I have _plenty_ of help, and Ruby's on her way over, so it's going to get pretty crowded in here."

His mom sniffs, clearly recognizing the dismissal. "If you're sure."

 _You want to make this mistake,_ her tone completes the sentence. 

"I am." _You bitch,_ Beth finishes, and when the guy shuts off the water and turns to grab a knife, Dean sees he's smiling, just a little, like he’s been paying more attention than he's been letting on, and for whatever reason, that annoys Dean even more. 

"Let me get you some _wine,_ Judith." Annie yanks the bottle out of Dean's arms on the word, leaving him grasping at nothing, unprepared for the sudden loss.

"Why don't you grab yourself a beer, Dean," Beth says, turning to him, that bright, blank smile still plastered across her face, her voice gone breathy in that way he can’t help responding to. "The game's starting soon, and Kenny's been talking about watching it with you all morning."

Which is how Dean finds himself shuffled off to the couch in the den—like a _guest—_ while _he's_ in the middle of things, acting like he owns the place. 

The place being _Dean's house,_ another thing everyone seems to have forgotten. Sure, okay, he signed over the deed to Beth during the divorce, and maybe he didn't _technically_ own it anymore, but he'd paid for it. The first time. Kind of, anyway. _He'd_ had the credit for the good interest rate on the mortgage, and _his_ parents were the ones that supplied most of the down payment, and _his_ job was the one that financed the payments....up until it didn't, sure, but it did for a while, and that's what's important here.

It should be more Dean's house than _his,_ is what he means, but no one would ever know it from the way _he's_ behaving. 

He keeps answering the door, for one, welcoming people in like he's the _host,_ while Dean's shoved up in a corner, out of the way, mostly ignoring a football game Beth definitely oversold Kenny's interest in. 

Not that Dean’s all that interested himself. He can’t stop looking around, marveling at how subtly _different_ everything is. It gives him a jolt, realizing how little he’s been in the house since the divorce. The couch in the den has been reupholstered and the coffee table is new, but the biggest difference is the photos. When Dean lived here, Beth had decorated mostly with framed prints but now it looks like she’s replaced all of them with framed photos. 

They’re mostly candids of the kids, and Dean recognizes a shot of Kenny giving Jane a piggy-back ride as one he’d sent her when he took them to Chicago, and a couple more as ones Beth’s sent him, but most of them are new. 

He didn’t know something as stupid as new pictures could make him feel so displaced.

Beth’s gone all-out, setting up for a crowd. The couch Dean's taken shelter on, normally in the middle of the room, is shoved up in the corner to make room for what looks like it's going to be a kids table, judging from the butcher paper table covering and miniature tin buckets filled with crayons at each place setting.

She's brought in a whole other full-sized table, lining it up with the one already in the dining room. The set up extends through the doorway into the living room where she's pushed that couch up against the wall to make room. 

_God,_ he needs a minute. It’s almost claustrophobic, how crowded it’s getting in here. 

The number of people arriving is just...a lot. Beth had always talked about inviting the Hills, but whenever it came up, Dean would point out that between their own family plus Annie—who was non-negotiable, Dean learned that straight away—and Ben, they already had a pretty big crowd.

Sure, adding more people might sound like a good time, but Dean didn't think she'd realized how much of an extra hassle trying to entertain guests would be for her on top of cooking and keeping track of the kids. Beth sees Ruby practically every day, he'd point out every time it came up, does she really need to come over for the holidays too? Is it so wrong to want to do a holiday with just family?

Every time they'd talked about it, Beth would usually go quiet at that. He figured it made her think because she always saw his point in the end. But apparently, that's something she'd changed her mind about too because the house is _full_ of people, most of them people Dean's never seen before.

It seems like without Dean around to rein her in, Annie's wormed her way into unlimited plus ones because she's invited her ex's ex—but not the ex, which is a shame, Dean always liked that kid—and her fat-faced little toddler Dean's pretty sure is named after a state, but he can't remember which one, and some guy Annie's friends with from a check-cashing place or something. 

Ruby and her family aren't there yet, but they're on the way, and, yeah, okay, Dean probably should've seen that coming. Beth brought it up every year. Fine, maybe he'd misread how much she'd actually come around on that. 

And that's—Jesus, that's seven extra people right there, but if that weren't enough, that...that _guy's_ people are showing up too. 

First, it was Face Tats from the showroom. He strolls in like he’s been here before and Dean can’t tell if he actually has been—well, Dean knows he’s been in the yard—or if that’s just the attitude he projects everywhere he goes. He’s definitely not an unfamiliar face because Annie comes bounding over and punches him in the shoulder, berating him for something involving an ignored text.

Then the guy’s _ex arrives?_ And sure enough, Dean definitely remembers her from that magical summer when all of his problems were supposed to be over. If it weren’t weird enough that she’s here, she’d brought people too. She’s got the kid, Marcus, in tow—and okay, maybe that one shouldn’t be a surprise—along with her girlfriend who looks vaguely familiar but Dean can’t figure out why.

Pretty soon after that, the kids give up on napkins entirely and are running around screaming. All the kids. Marcus too. He’s been totally, seamlessly absorbed into the fold, scheming along with the rest of them for the spare pie crust scraps Beth shapes into leaves and bakes along with the pies. She always says they're for just-in-case she needs the extra, but then she leaves them on a corner of the counter so the kids can steal them and feel like they're getting away with something. 

Usually, Dean thinks it's cute, the fact that she does it and the elaborate diversions the kids come up with to draw attention while one of them makes off with the plate, but this year it's not doing it for him. 

He's so annoyed not even the scent of the roasting turkey that wafts through the den when Beth checks the oven is enough to perk him up, and that's usually one of his favorite things. 

This guy has taken _literally everything_ from him. 

How is this Thanksgiving somehow worse than two years ago when Beth demanded a divorce?

The house feels full, almost bursting even, but not in a crowded way. It feels...warm. Happy, Dean realizes. It seems like there's laughter coming from every direction. 

Annie's in the kitchen laughing her head off at something the check cashing guy said, and Beth's giggling along with her. Dean's pretty sure he even sees _his_ shoulders shaking over where he’s doing something at the sink.

Annie's ex's ex is in there too, fixing a sippy cup for the toddler clinging to her leg—smiling, not laughing, she doesn't look like she laughs much—but Dean can hear the rest of the kids chattering from the direction of the dining and living room. 

The whole thing is just... _different._ It's not just the number of people and the rearranged furniture, but Dean can't put his finger on what exactly it is. 

Well, aside from the obvious.

The doorbell chimes through the house.

"I'll get it!" Dean calls, on his feet and moving towards the front door before he'd even decided to move.

When he passes the living room, his heart sinks a little when he sees his mom enthusiastically caught up in conversation with the girlfriend—Diane, he thinks? Daisy, maybe? He wishes he could place her. Sure, it's great that his mom's having a good time, obviously, but it makes him feel….lonely. Like he's been abandoned by the one person he was _sure_ would be on his side.

The ex—Rhea, Dean remembers—looks pretty weirded out, though. She keeps blinking around wide-eyed and gulping her wine. Maybe he should hang out with her more. She seems like she gets it.

 _"Stan!"_ Dean flings open the door, his nearly overwhelming relief to find an ally on the doorstep propelling him forward to throw his arms around the man, making him stagger back. 

"Uh, hey man," Stan says, giving him a hesitant pat on the back before ducking out of the hug. 

Dean clears his throat, taking a step back to give them room to pass. Ruby hustles the kids into the house in front of her, barely putting any effort into hiding her amusement but Dean doesn’t even care, he’s too relieved to _finally_ have someone here in his corner beside his mom.

Except when Dean turns around, the Hills are halfway to the kitchen, and the guy's come out to meet him. He gives Ruby a surprisingly respectful nod and gets one in return, before he and Stan do that complicated handshake thing Dean's never been able to get the hang of, capping it off by leaning in and slapping each other on the back. Then the guy _takes_ their _coats_ like some kind of _host,_ and for a terrifying second, Dean thinks he's going to just like, throw up or something all over the foyer.

Off to his left, he can see Deborah or whatever reenacting something bendy, yoga maybe? And can hear his mom laughing maybe harder than he's ever heard her laugh. 

Needing a break, Dean slips down the hall towards the office. He figures he can just, take a breather, get his bearings someplace quiet—someplace familiar.

Except when he steps into the room, it’s completely different. 

It’s still an office, but Beth’s painted it and completely rearranged the furniture. There’s a new desk, something that fits into the corner of the room. It positions the chair so whoever uses it—Beth, and apparently somewhat regularly, based on the slippers kicked off in the corner and the chunky knit throw thrown over the chair like she’d just stepped away—has a clear view down the hall to the stairs. Perfect for spotting any wandering kids, he guesses. 

There are more photos in here, different sizes and frames propped up on the desk. Dean smiles, a familiar one of Emma posing in her tutu catching his eye, but when he picks it up for a closer look, he nearly drops it immediately when he sees the matted shot behind it.

It’s Beth and _him._ It looks like it was taken last summer. They’re in a yard Dean doesn’t recognize, some place with a massive stone patio, sitting on the steps next to each other, obviously unaware someone’s taking a picture. Beth’s head is tipped back and she’s laughing the _laugh,_ the one that always made Dean feel kind of uncomfortable, and the _way_ the guy is looking at her is so—it’s so—

If Dean hadn’t already figured he was in love with her, he’d know it for sure after seeing that. 

He sets the photo of Emma back in place with a definitive _clack,_ hiding the offending picture from view, that claustrophobic, airless feeling returning in force.

Dean staggers out of the office, beelining straight to the front door, vaguely waving over his shoulder when he hears someone—he’s not sure who, does it matter?—ask if he’s okay.

The cold fall air greets him like a slap in the face, but like hell he's going back in for his coat. He pops his collar and rubs his hands together, trying to get some friction, and shoving them in his pockets. He hops around, his breath puffing out in faint clouds, and nearly trips over his feet when he sees Mrs. Karpinski out in her yard across the street watching him.

Not wanting her to think anything's wrong, he waves and heads towards the back of the house. Trying to act like that was his destination all along, and he was just taking a moment to himself on the porch. 

When he gets to the backyard, Face Tats is there, sitting at the picnic table and vaping. He looks up from his phone when Dean comes around the corner of the house.

"Want a hit?" Face Tats asks, extending the pen, impassive as he seems to ever be.

And, _God,_ Dean doesn't know which pisses him off more: that the guy is doing _drugs_ in the back _yard_ where Dean's _kids play,_ and Beth is apparently just, like, _cool with it?_ Or the fact that Dean can't get a moment's peace _anywhere._

He doesn't bother responding, just levels the guy with a disgusted glare, and heads back into the house through the mudroom. He'll just— he'll grab another beer. Try to watch the game. Maybe pull Beth aside and say something. 

Dean's put up with a lot; he's been _more_ than gracious about the whole thing. But a gangbanger doing drugs? In the backyard? At Thanksgiving? It's too far over the line. He doesn't care if it is legal in Michigan.

He forgets all about it when he walks into the mudroom, stopped dead in his tracks by his view into the kitchen.

It's empty except for Beth and that _guy,_ and even with all the noise and ruckus happening only a few feet away, the thing that strikes like a fist to the gut is how much they give the impression they're alone in the world. 

Beth's at the counter mashing potatoes, and the guy's next to her doing something with cranberries and peppers—and that's another thing, he cooks? Come _on._

They aren't even doing anything, just quietly working side by side, but there's a synchronicity to their movements, a quiet peace that makes Dean feel more like an intruder than anything else that's happened today, and he _hates_ it.

It’s so far from the guy that’d broken into his home, beaten him up. Who’d looked at him with those terrifying, blank, shark eyes before casually _shooting_ him in the _chest_ like it was _nothing_ right where they’re about to sit down and share a meal.

A guy, Dean suddenly realizes, he hasn’t seen any hint of in a long, long time. It’s not that he doesn’t think that part of him isn’t there, it’s just...it’s weird, is all, how completely he puts it away. 

It reminds Dean of Beth, actually, now that he’s thinking about it.

 _God._ They look so...so _domestic._ Sweet. Disarming in a way that completely undermines everything Dean thought he'd known about the guy and their whole... _thing._

He just—he doesn't _get_ it, what Beth sees in him. 

He thought he did. He understands the whole bad boy thing women go for—though he'd been a little disappointed that Beth fell for it. But this is different. It throws him all the way back into the dark, leaving him scrambling to understand what Beth's getting out of this and why she had to leave Dean to find it.

Because this? This isn't new; this isn't Beth playing at being a badass. This is Beth in her element, the same element Dean's seen her in year after year except... _not._

She shines in a way that makes him blink because he can't put his finger on what's changed about her, specifically. 

As he watches, the guy says something that makes Beth laugh, and Dean's breath catches at the way she throws her head back, a bubbly, joyful sound spilling out of her. It's such a happy, _easygoing_ sound. Dean doesn't know if he's _ever_ heard Beth sound like that. _Definitely_ not around the holidays.

"Shut the fuck up," she says—that's another jolt; Dean doesn't think he's ever heard Beth say _fuck_ —and the guy grins like that means something as she turns and goes up on her toes to kiss him.

The guy stops what he's doing and casually loops an arm around her waist, pulling her in and holding her up, and it's—they're not even _doing_ anything, really. It's not a particularly heated kiss; they're in full view of everyone in the other room, after all. But it's...it's _intimate_ in the way they linger. The way she tips her head against his shoulder and he runs a hand up her back, kneading her neck.

Dean feels like a total creep for watching, and there’s some kind of weird, complicated feeling brewing in his stomach. Something's bubbling, building, some kind of awareness rising to the surface, and it's giving him the strongest urge to run, even though he doesn't know what from, exactly.

Before he can duck out, they break apart. Beth turns back to what she'd been doing, but the guy looks right at him like he knows Dean's been there all along. 

It'd be one thing if he'd smirk, look smug, something that rubs his victory in Dean's face, but instead, he just raises an eyebrow— _disdainful_ of all things—silently asking what the hell Dean's doing, and that somehow makes the whole thing even _worse._

Dean staggers back into the back door, fumbling for the doorknob, reeling with a combination of embarrassment and confusion and the whatever it is that makes him want to run and never look back. 

He hears Beth call his name, so she'd known or figured out that he was there too, which is just...great. 

When he bursts back out into the yard, gulping for air, for his bearings, for something, _anything_ to make this all make sense, Face Tats is still there. He pauses, vape pen halfway to his mouth, and shoves up from the picnic table and heads towards the house without a word.

Dean drops down on the bench facing out towards the playhouse, resting his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. 

What is he _doing_ here? Why did Beth invite him in the first place? What is she getting out of this? It’s like the whole day is just rubbing his nose in everything he lost. Is that what she wants? Is that the kind of person she is now?

He hears the door open and close behind him and knows it's going to be her before he hears her soft steps crunching through the few remaining leaves still blanketing the backyard. He wonders if she'd raked them herself or if _he'd_ done it. If they'd made it a big weekend thing with the kids like Beth and Dean used to do. 

Along with Halloween, raking the leaves used to be the big fall family activity. Beth would get the kids bundled up in sweaters and hats and mittens, and they'd put on their rubber boots while Dean would clear a space in the yard for a tarp. Then Beth and Dean would rake the leaves into piles around the edges. Eventually, once they were big enough to use the kid-sized rakes Dean found at the hardware store—and bought two years too early for even Kenny to use in anticipation—Kenny and Danny would help. Then the girls would use buckets leftover from summer trips to the beach along Lake Huron to gather and dump them onto the tarp.

When the yard was clear, Beth would go in and start heating up cider and making snacks, and Dean and the kids would take turns cannonballing into the leaf pile. It was always his favorite part of fall: rolling around in that pile with his kids, letting them bury him, the rich, loamy smell of the leaves layering onto their shrill, shrieking giggles piercing the air. 

Later, after Beth would bring out the tray of cider and whatever she'd whipped up, and they'd all take a minute to sit around at the picnic table. Dean would always clear his throat and say something about winter being on the way and bringing Christmas with it, and idly wonder aloud if anyone in the house had been good enough to warrant a visit from Santa this year. Every year it would set the kids off, and they'd argue over themselves over who'd been the best behaved. Later, after they'd finished their snacks, Beth would take the kids in and get them cleaned up while she made dinner, and Dean would go back to the yard to rake the leaves scattered from playing in the pile onto the tarp and drag it out onto the front curb for the city to pick up.

Those days, especially the moments they'd all sit around the table, are Dean's favorite part of fall and maybe the thing he misses the most. Dean has a perfect memory etched into his mind—could be from a more recent year, could be a mix of all of them—of looking down the table, past the kids' bobbing knitwear-clad heads, to Beth. He'll never forget the soft curve of that satisfied, happy little smile she'd get, the brightness of her eyes, the way the steam from her cider would curl around her face when she raised her mug to take a sip. 

What if he's lost it, that feeling of family? What if he can never find it again?

"Dean." 

The gentle way Beth says his name pushes him over the edge, and as she settles on the bench beside him, tucking a leg under her and sitting sideways so she can keep an eye on him and the house. He looks away, swiping an arm beneath his eyes and sniffling, hoping she doesn't notice.

She does, of course she does, but she doesn't say anything, only sits quietly, giving him time to get himself together.

He stares out at the yard. Now that he's looking, he can see there are some slightly more concentrated clusters of leftover leaves. Like she raked them into individual piles.

"You know, the tarp makes it easier," he says. His voice comes out thick, and he clears his throat before he continues. "You can get it all out to the curb in one go."

"I know," Beth agrees, following his train of thought like she always has. "But I didn't want…"

She trails off, and Dean swallows hard, there are so many ways she could end that sentence, and he's not sure he's ready for any of them.

"It didn't seem right," she finishes. "Doing it without you."

Dean blinks. That wasn't what he was expecting at all, especially not after everything happening in the house. Not after the way she's rebuilt their lives without him. 

"Oh yeah? You're worried about what's right now?" 

As the words tumble out of his mouth, he realizes it's not fair, he shouldn't be saying it. He doesn’t know if it’s the disorientation of seeing this life—so _close_ but also so _different_ from the one that used to be his—or what, but it’s like a spotlight’s been switched on. He’s abruptly, excruciatingly aware that he was the thing that didn’t fit and worse, that he’d hadn’t _tried,_ not really. In terms of one of them wronging the other, his list of sins is a lot longer and goes a lot further back than hers.

And he knows she knows it too. He can tell she's thinking the same thing from her disappointed little sigh. But that just pisses him off, that she can sit there and judge him—be disappointed in him—when he's so obviously lost, so clearly hurting.

"Why am I here, Beth? Why'd you invite me?”

“What do you mean? It’s Thanksgiving, I thought—”

“Did you just want to show off how—how _happy_ you are now?"

That’s not quite right, it’s not the happiness that’s killing him, he’s _always_ wanted Beth to be happy. The part that crushes him is the inescapable evidence that, apparently, _Dean_ was the reason she wasn’t.

He can feel her jerk back on the bench beside him. "What? No! I—Dean—" 

She sputters to a halt, and the silence that falls between them now is loaded and awkward and makes Dean itch. A part of him wants to say nevermind and take it back, smooth things over and let them lie. But another part, the part that wins out, wants to see what she has to say for herself. 

"Maybe a little." 

The words are so quiet that at first, Dean isn't sure she actually said them, but when he whips his head around to look at her, the flush staining her cheeks and the way she won't meet his eyes confirms that she actually, really did, and more than that, that she meant it. 

He opens his mouth then closes it, his victorious _I knew it_ curdling on his tongue. 

"I guess I deserve that," he says instead, surprised to find the sentiment coming out more genuine than bitter.

"It was still pretty immature," she admits, though he can't help notice she doesn't disagree with him.

Dean snorts and looks back out at the yard. A breeze has picked up just enough to spread some of the leaves around, obscuring the remnants of the piles.

"It was never about crime, was it?" he asks quietly. 

Beth sighs. "No. Or at least, not only."

"So, what was it? Why him?"

She's quiet for a long time, so long Dean isn't sure if she's going to answer. 

"I hadn't been happy," she says, eventually. "And now I am."

"With him," Dean presses, unable to stop himself. 

Beth makes a humming sound, part affirmation, but also part denial. "It's not just him. He's part of it, don't get me wrong, but I...we—you and me—we got together so young, I didn't...I didn't know who I was or what I wanted, not really. I hadn't had a chance to find out yet."

"And now you know?"

"And now I know."

Dean forces himself to look at her, and she isn't looking at him. Instead, she's staring out at the yard, something soft and...and, just deeply _content_ about the look on her face.

She looks _relaxed,_ and what catches him entirely off guard is how _alien_ it seems to him.

He's seen Beth look a thousand different ways, but it isn't until this moment, sitting with her out on the picnic table they've sat at a million times before, that he realizes he doesn't think he's ever seen her fully relaxed. 

Looking back, even those Fall leaf days, she was always thinking ahead, focused on the next step, the next task. Keeping track of who still had homework and how she was going to fit dinner around getting the kids in the shower.

He wonders if it’s because she’d never truly been able to relax all those years, or if that just wasn’t one of the parts of herself she shared with him. He wonders which one is worse.

"I don't get it," he can't stop himself from saying. 

Because he doesn't, he doesn't get any of it. What did he do that made her so unhappy? The affairs? It wasn’t like _he_ hadn’t done worse. And Dean was _fine_ with the crime, if that’s what she wanted, so why couldn’t _they_ make it work? How is he supposed to accept it wasn’t just that _guy_ that took her away? 

How is he supposed to accept that he was the one couldn’t keep her

Beth laughs, a soft sound that's little more than a breath, and now she turns to look at him, a gentle smile curving her lips.

"That's okay," she says. "No one's asking you to."

They sit in silence for a minute. Dean's surprised she stays; he figured she'd go rushing back to her perfect, happy life. Leave him out here in the cold.

"What am I doing wrong?" He hates the way the question comes out; he sounds like a little kid.

"With what?" Dean looks over, and she's frowning a little.

"With everything," he clarifies, but it doesn't help; she only looks more confused. He sighs. "Melissa and I broke up."

She doesn’t look all that surprised, so he guesses the kids already passed that one along, but he does see something flash across her face and he flushes when he realizes it’s pity. She hides it quickly, smoothing her face over into something more sympathetic, but he'd seen it. 

"What happened?"

Dean shrugs. "She said I wasn't what she was looking for, whatever that means."

"Was she…was she what _you_ were looking for?"

Now Dean frowns. "I don't know what that means."

"It means…" she hesitates, looking over and studying him like she's trying to determine whether or not to explain. 

"Just say it," he says, resigned. Whatever it is, it's not like it'll make him feel worse than he already does.

"It seems a little bit like you're flailing," she says, her voice gentle. "The kids told me a bit about Melissa, and she seemed, well…"

She stops again, biting her lip and looking down, drawing a circle in the brittle, winter grass with her toe. "Did you ever think she seemed a little...convenient? Familiar?"

Dean rears back like he's been slapped, but his immediate and distinctive denial gets stuck on his tongue before he can voice it. "What do you mean?"

"She runs the bakery across the street from the showroom, Dean. She’s got three kids. Ruby said she knows her from the holiday craft fair her church puts on. Melissa volunteers _and_ has a booth every year. I guess, from the outside, it seems a little like you were falling into...maybe trying to recreate something that you might not have even wanted all that much in the first place."

It's the weirdest thing, but Dean suddenly remembers sitting out here with his dad, all those years ago. He remembers that little flash of doubt, that split second of uncertainty about Beth and whether or not he knew her, _wanted_ to know her. 

He shakes his head, both in denial and to clear the memory away.

 _"No,_ that's not—I _loved—_ You were—We were _happy."_

"We were," she agrees. "But maybe not…"

Beth looks to the house, and Dean turns, trying to see what she sees.

The sun's dropped below the horizon, and in the deepening twilight, the house seems to glow. The light spilling out into the yard and through the kitchen, Dean can see _him,_ that _guy._ Not watching them or anything—his back's to them, and it looks like he's got one of the girls, maybe Jane? sitting up on the island next to him as he works—but _there._ An undeniable part of Beth's life, his kids' lives. 

"There are different ways to be happy."

Dean's attention snaps back to Beth and she's got that soft smile, and she seems—It's like— 

It hits him all of a sudden, the awareness he'd wanted to run from before. 

Beth _loves_ him. 

It feels like the kind of thing that should come along with something dramatic like lightning should strike. But all Dean feels is a kind of weary resignation. An awareness that he probably should've seen this coming. 

Okay, maybe he did see it coming—he isn't a _total_ idiot—but hadn't wanted to accept. Like if he kept avoiding it, he could stop it from being true.

Beth's never coming back, he realizes.

 _That_ stops him up short. He didn't...he didn't know he was waiting for that. Or no, it's not that he was, or thought she would, it's that he hadn't...he hadn't accepted it. 

Dean heaves out a breath, a wispy cloud that puffs in front of his face. 

Beth looks at him, cocking her head.

"My dad—" Dean stops. His dad _what?_ His dad wanted him to make this work. His dad told him not to give up. 

His dad would be ashamed of him.

"Dean…" Beth stops, pursing her lips, looking back out at the yard. "Your dad knew one way to be happy." 

She glances back at him, her eyes soft, gentle. "Maybe you need to find a different one."

That early winter breeze whips back through the yard, more of a full gust of wind now, and Dean can feel its icy fingers burrowing through him and settling in his bones. 

Beth pats him on the knee and stands. The back door opens, letting out a peel of laughter—one of the kids, Dean can't tell which one, doesn't know if it's one of his—and she turns towards the house.

Dean knows before he's twisted all the way around—knows from the way Beth's whole face brightens and _opens—_ who's going to be there.

Sure enough, _he's_ leaning out the door. _Rio._

Dean figures he might as well get used to the name—if for no other reason so it's not such a jolt when one of the kids says it—because he can tell just from looking at them and how they're looking at each other that he's not going anywhere anytime soon. That he might— _God._

That he might _never_ go away.

He’s put a button-down on over his t-shirt and it makes Dean feel that much worse, realizing he’s probably got _clothes_ at the house. He’s also not alone; Jane’s with him, dangling down his back. Her arms are wrapped around his throat, and he’s holding them where they cross with one hand, equal parts anchoring her and keeping her from choking him. Dean knows from experience Jane’s still working on the concept of a windpipe and unrestricted airflow. 

Rio's eyes flick to Dean then back to Beth like she's a magnet. He opens his mouth and Dean hunches, braced for... _something._

"Turkey's out." 

Dean waits for the other shoe to drop, for him to say something, tell Beth to come in, something that acknowledges Dean’s out here with his—with his—Beth. 

It’s what Dean would’ve done, after all.

"You good, ma?"

Instead of answering him, Beth looks to Dean. "Dinner will be on the table in about fifteen, twenty minutes. You'll come in when you're ready?"

Jane starts squirming, and Dean notes with a detached sort of satisfaction how the guy winces when one of her pointy little knees gets him square in the kidney. He reaches an arm behind him, steadying her as he lets go of her arms, and she drops to the ground.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Beth asks as Jane goes scrambling past her towards the picnic table.

“Sitting with dad.”

Beth eyes her thin sweater then looks to Dean.

“We’ll come inside in a minute,” he assures her. What else is he going to do, leave?

Beth bites her lip and nods but hesitates, glancing at Jane, then back to Dean and nods again, surer this time. 

“Fifteen minutes,” she tells them.

“Okaaaaay, mom,” Jane moans, and for a second, it’s two, three years ago. Like the divorce never happened, Dean never moved out, and everything never fell apart.

But then Beth’s heading back towards the house and the guy—Rio—is there, dropping a hand to the small of her back as she passes. He glances at Dean, tipping his chin in the barest hint of a nod before following her in.

Because, _right,_ nothing’s the same and everything _did_ fall apart, and there isn’t anything Dean can do to fix it, and he’s starting to wonder if maybe he never wanted to. Maybe if he really had he wouldn’t have let all of those secrets pile up, the affairs. The money. Maybe he would’ve tried to _talk_ to Beth. Tried to work _with_ her, instead of trying to force her to do things his way.

But he hadn’t. He’d followed his dad’s advice. He’d kept his eyes so focused on the prize, he didn’t see how much was falling by the wayside.

Just like his dad. 

Jane drops down on the bench next to him, scooting over and bumping her bony little hip against his. She huffs a sigh and slumps forward, balancing her arms on her legs and letting her hands dangle, mimicking Dean’s posture.

Dean snorts, even as his heart sinks. He doesn’t want his kids to see him like this—depressed, lost, clearly the loser in this scenario—but he doesn’t have the energy to get into a fight with Jane right now; she goes where she wants to go, and there’s nothing he can do about it

There’s nothing he can do about any of this. 

They sit in silence for a minute; then Jane starts kicking at a leaf that’s blown across the yard, flipping it over and over with the toe of her shoe. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s being almost careful, trying not to crumble its crispy edges, but careful’s never been a word he associates with Jane. That’s more Emma’s style.

She’s cut her hair, he realizes with a pang. A little below her shoulders. He hadn’t noticed.

“Hey, why’d you quit dance?” He’d never asked her, and watching the delicate way she’s playing with the leaf reminds him she had the potential to be really good at it if she’d kept it up.

Jane shrugs. “Didn’t like it.”

Dean scoffs. “That’s not a good enough reason to quit something, Janey. Quitting is—”

He stops, the rest of the sentence balanced on the tip of his tongue, but then he swallows it back. Maybe...maybe he doesn’t want to teach his kids everything his dad taught him.

“Quitting should be a last resort,” he says instead. “Something you think really, really carefully about before you do it.”

“I did!” Jane scowls up at him. “I _prized_ my resources.”

Dean squints, trying to puzzle out what she thinks she’s saying.

“Prioritized?” Dean asks, laughing a little. “Where’d you get that one?”

Jane looks down, kicking the leaf over again. “Mr. Rio.”

Dean’s laughter trails off. Right. He should’ve known. He looks down at his daughter’s bowed head and hunched shoulders and feels something hollow in his stomach. He wonders how much the kids have picked up on.

He takes a deep breath. “Do you like him?”

Jane shrugs again; the leaf is still the most fascinating thing in the world. Dean doesn’t think he’s going to get anything else out of her and casts about for something else to say to smooth things over.

“He makes mom smile.” Jane’s voice is so small when she says it; Dean feels something in his chest _crack—_ whether at what she’s telling him or that she’s so hesitant to say it, he doesn’t know. Probably both.

Dean sighs, defeat and, yeah, okay, more than a little guilt, weighing heavy on his shoulders. “That’s good.”

The quiet falls between them again, the only sound that faint rustling of that almost-winter breeze, rattling the last few leaves on the trees and the ground as it winds in and out of the yard.

They should go in, dinner’s probably almost served, and God knows Jane probably needs to wash up.

“He doesn’t take us to Erma’s.”

Dean’s eyes snap to Jane, and this time, she’s looking at him with that intense little stare she does.

“Did you ask him to?”

Jane shakes her head.

“Do you—do you want him to?”

Jane shakes her head again, and Dean swallows, trying to clear the lump forming in his throat.

“Why not?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer, but Jane just shrugs again, looking out at the yard, seeming to lose interest in the conversation. “You know, your grandpa used to take me there.”

Jane looks up at him again at that, and her little face is so _serious,_ like Dean’s imparting state secrets and not making small talk about frozen custard.

“What’d he get?”

Dean grins, both at the memory and her focus. “A pineberry parfait. Every single time.”

Jane wrinkles her nose, and Dean laughs. “Yeah, I thought it was pretty gross too.” 

He thinks for a minute and flushes, slightly ashamed he can’t remember what Jane ordered when he took the kids over the summer. They’d gone a few times, but between the four kids and him, it’s all jumbled, and he can’t remember who got what. 

“What’s your favorite?”

“Blue raspberry creamee freeze!” She says without hesitation, and Dean nods, committing it to memory. He remembers now, trying to keep out of Jane’s reach while handing her a wad of napkins; her mouth and hands smeared with bright blue.

“Can we go get some?”

Dean blinks down at her. “What, tonight?”

Jane nods.

“They’re closed until April,” he tells her. 

“Oh.” Jane’s face falls.

“Tell you what,” he says, an idea sparking. “When you guys come over next weekend, let’s see if we can figure out making our own.”

“Yeah?” She perks up at that, straightening back up, an excited grin blooming across her face when he nods. How hard can it be? It’s basically just ice cream in a slushie; he’ll find a YouTube video if he has to. Things may not have worked out so well with Melissa, but before it’d fallen apart he’d gotten pretty good at navigating cooking videos. He could show off a little more, for the kids. 

They lapse into silence again but, even flush with the giddy relief that he can still make _someone_ happy, Dean has a nagging sense of something unfinished about the conversation. Like Jane’s waiting for something from him—which is ridiculous, she’s _eight—_ and whatever it is, he hasn’t delivered yet.

“Jane,” he blurts before he fully knows what he’s going to say.

She looks up at him, curious, but also vaguely expectant, maybe even a little wary.

“I’m glad—” He clears his throat. “I’m glad Mr. Rio makes your mom happy.”

No eight-year-old should be able to look that skeptical and, oh _hell,_ the kids have definitely picked up on more than he thought they did.

Dean flushes, something taking root inside him and making his stomach churn. He feels like— like he failed, somehow. Like there’s something he did wrong but he doesn’t know what. Like he needs to say something, anything, to—to...he doesn’t know. Fix it. Or at least try. 

He sighs. “It’s okay if you like him, too, you know.”

Jane looks down and starts kicking her feet again.

“I think…” Dean pauses, swallows hard. “I think he’s probably going to be around for—for a while. And if that’s the case, I’m glad he’s someone you guys like.”

Jane peeks up at him. “Mom too?”

 _God._ Isn’t it enough to say it for the kid’s sake? But Jane’s still looking at him and— _Fine._

“Your mom, too.” Saying it aloud feels like giving something away. Dean doesn’t know what, but he has a brief sense of overwhelming loss that leaves him cold and hollow. 

Except. Now Jane’s turned all the way towards him, beaming, and it’s like the sun coming out. Dean lifts an arm and she dives into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and snuggling up against him, like a tiny ember chasing away some of the chill.

Dean looks up. The house is bright and warm, and he can see Beth and Rio in the kitchen and, just. _God._

It really is up to him, isn’t it? How much he wants to be a part of this.

Beth’s cracked the kitchen window and the faint smell of roast turkey wafts across the yard, making his stomach rumble and Jane giggles.

“Hey, Janey, what smells best at a Thanksgiving dinner?”

She pushes back and looks up at him. “What?”

“Your nose.” He reaches around and pinches hers as she groans and wiggles away. 

Grinning, Dean stands, holding out a hand to help her up. When she takes it, he swings her up into his arms, grunting a little—these kids are getting _big._

Holding his giggling daughter close, Dean heads back into the house, like he was invited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT'S DONE. a massive shout out to [nottonyharrison](https://nottonyharrison.tumblr.com/) / [goodgirlsficrecs](https://goodgirlsficrecs.tumblr.com/) for putting together the promptathon (way back when, lmao, deadlinees are for suckers), it has been a ton of fun and I cannot wait for the upcoming kinky version. another shout out and heartfelt thank you to [pynkhues](https://pynkhues.tumblr.com/) for listening to me whine about my mental block around figuring out dean's goals (who cares, ammirite? turns out, to my everlasting disgust, this worked a lot better if I did) and gave me some tips on structure that ended up being the domino that completely changed how I thought about this whole chapter for the better.
> 
> from the bottom of my weird robot heart, an embarrassingly sincere thank you to [foxmagpie](https://foxmagpie.tumblr.com/) not just for beta-ing the absolute shit out of this chapter (though, your thorough feedback throughout and top-notch eye for character/arc/theme/detail was absolutely crucial, desperately appreciated, and took this from a meandering walkabout where I basically just took potshots at Dean into a real live story and something I am extremely proud of, tbh, not to mention completely leveling up the way I think about and approach my writing), but also for being my go-to CAN I TALK THIS THROUGH buddy and an in general all-around amazing friend. ily a lot don't make a thing of it okay. I hope you like what I did with your prompt, sorry I made you help me with it. 
> 
> and finally, thank you so, so much to everyone who's been reading and commenting and sending me asks and messages about this fic (and both hands! the little 'verse I'm spawning is so special to me and I am EXTREMELY EXCITED about what I've come up with for Beth POV and the extra layer it adds to the whole timeline bc I'm a NERD). I love and v much appreciate all of you. bonus shout out to making it all the way here, to the end of this gargantuan beast of a chapter about _dean_ no less. you're amazing 💖


End file.
